


Flower Rain (Re-Write)

by Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard



Series: Flower Rain [1]
Category: Political RPF - Russian 21st c.
Genre: Denial of Feelings, Hanahaki AU, Heavy Angst, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major character death - Freeform, Mildly Dubious Consent, Misunderstandings, Pining, Rejection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:41:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22629538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard/pseuds/Goddess_Under_The_Cupboard
Summary: Life is a steady march towards death.He'll take this secret to the grave.At what cost?
Relationships: Dmitry Medvedev/Vladimir Putin, Svetlana Medvedeva/Dmitry Medvedev (past)
Series: Flower Rain [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1627987
Comments: 12
Kudos: 20





	1. A Cycle of Tragic Love

_You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.  
_ _At the heart of time, love of one for another.  
_ _We have played along side millions of lovers, shared in the same.  
_ _The shy sweetness of meeting, the same distressful tears of farewell—  
_ _Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever._

_**-Unending Love by Rabindranath Tagore.** _

_**Hanahaki Disease** _

An affliction that makes the patient cough up or throws up flower petals as they suffer from one-sided love. This type of disease develops within months or even years. People who are afflicted with this disease can feel or show the following symptoms: 

  * Sharp pain in the chest area as the flower take root in the lungs.
  * Coughing up or throwing up flower petals
  * As it reaches the final stage, the patient will throw up whole flowers. If not treated, the blooms will fill up the lungs. Thus, causing the patient to choke in a mix of their blood and petals.



The disease can be healed through surgery or if the patient's object of their love returns their feelings. To ensure continued healing and to eradicate the flowers, the patient must be persuaded and always assured by their object of affection that the opinions are mutual. 

Patients who undergo surgery to remove the flowers in their respiratory system often noted that their feelings that they have for their object of affection disappears. Also, a patient forgetting about the one that they are smitten with is a normal side-effect of the surgery.

_**Red Spider Lilies (Hanahaki Disease)**_

Eastern beliefs consider Lycoris Radiata (aka Red Spider Lilies) as an ominous flower that blooms on the roads of Diyu. It guides the soul to the afterlife towards their next reincarnation. When the flower of the Lycoris Radiata blooms, its leaves wilt and when the leaves grow, the bloom withers. This habit gave rise to another myth of love and tragedy. 

The Goddess Amaterasu tasked two elves to guard the herb, Manju oversees the flower while Saka looks after the leaves. They grew curious with one another and defied the Goddess' order and met. The guardians of the flower fell in love at first sight; however, angered by their defiance; Amaterasu separated them and laid a curse that Manju's flowers will never meet Saka's leaves forever.

As they met in the afterlife, they vowed to meet at each reincarnation, but it was never fulfilled, their souls carrying the curse laid upon them by the Goddess. Manjusaka is another name for the red spider lilies to commemorate the star crossed guardians.

It is also said that people who are fated not to see each other once again will see red spider lilies blooming along their path. 

Also known as the Flower of Death, the Red Spider Lilies signals to the Hanahaki sufferer that their love can never be reciprocated. There are a few documented cases of this rare type of hanahaki; it has no known cure, unlike the most common types. Surgery will only lead to death as the flowers contain a poison that will paralyse and eventually kill the patient if disturbed. In recent years, an antidote has been created, but it cannot entirely remove the poison, it only keeps it at bay. Proximity to their object of affection aggravates the symptoms further. 

It is the most devastating type of Hanahaki ever to exist.


	2. Chapter I: A Fruitless Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fate plans coincidences until it becomes a certainty

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to the re-publishing of Flower Rain's Chapter 1 with more added content :3
> 
> RBTH released an article on Putin's hypothetical smell? I chose the one that I think fits my imagination best but if you are curious here's the link: https://www.rbth.com/lifestyle/331719-the-best-perfum-of-putin
> 
> I also would like to express my gratitude to my boyfriend for helping me write the smut. Aside from that, I also want to thank him for bearing with me as I made him watch snippets of Власть in YT to get the layout of Putin's office as a deputy mayor.
> 
> Also, I got the information that Dima worked for Putin as an advisor/consultant for three years in First Person.
> 
> Information that Putin only did press clippings in his time in the KGB is provided by Masha Gessen's A Man Without a Face: The Unlikely Rise of Vladimir Putin
> 
> I tried my hands on mimicking Eudoxia Lopukhina's way of writing, the layout of the Tsarina's letters are graciously provided by Robert K. Massie in his Peter The Great: His Life and Works autobiography

I long to tell you the truest words I have to say to you; but I dare not, being afraid that you would not believe them.  
That is why I disguise them in untruth, saying the contrary of what I mean.  
I make my pain appear absurd, afraid that you should do so.

- _ **The Gardener Sonnet #41 by Rabindranath Tagore**_

_I salute my Lord, the Tsar Peter Alexeyevich._

_I beg of you, O Lord. You must not break our ties; I cannot abandon my responsibilities as a mother. I know that it is futile, but your lowly wife knocks on your heart to spare some mercy. Let me be with our son; I beg of you not to tear a child from his mother._

_However, if this will give you the peace and freedom that you seek, then this humble servant accepts her fate. If this act is the only thing that will garner your affections, then this servant willingly relinquishes her rightful position and will take a monastic vow. My Sovereign, I will gladly pray for your success and longevity; I only ask that I'll retain correspondence with my dear son._

_My Lord, I am enclosing this crimson bloom that came forth within me as a testament of my undying love and loyalty to you._

_A humble servant, eternally bowing low before you._

_Dunka_

_A hollow laugh rang throughout the room._

With a shaky hand, Dmitry Anatolyevich closes the book quietly and gazes at its cover in contemplation. The serene look on his face is matching the woman on the cover. A friend from a far off century, reading Eudoxia Lopukhina's biography has provided him comfort and at the same time, a great sense of irony. 

Political technologists consider Vladimir Vladimirovich as a modern-day Peter the Great. He rules Russia as any tsar would do: with an iron hand and revered by his citizens. The country's people and riches are at his disposal - he gives and takes away. Once the resources have served their purposes; the president discards you with such cruelty. He erases you in the annals of history and tramples everything that you have done for the motherland. 

He and Vladimir are natives of the land that Tsar Peter has built and raised from the marshes. Are they condemned to play out the same fate? Life is a vast theatre, and everyone needs to fulfil their roles no matter how trivial it is. It just so happens that fate assigns him the part of the hapless, tragic and pitiful first wife. 

Fate plans out coincidences in secret, and you'll never know until you fell into its vicious maw. Certainty chews and spits up your soul into many pieces that it would be futile to pick up and return it to what it was. She sets up an elaborate ruse, and he's one of its pawns — a valuable piece on her board.

There were a lot of parallels between him and Eudoxia Lopukhina. They are both thrusts into the harsh and unforgiving world of government; so eager to please their tsars. However, they weren't able to seduce the rulers that they swore their servitude to from the allures of power. 

But unlike Eudoxia, Dmitry Anatolyevich will never beg his tsar. He's not as transparent as the Tsarina, who openly showed her hostility and jealousy towards the Tsar Peter's fascination with modernity and his mistress. He will never implore Vladimir to address the emotional tidal wave, threatening to drown his very being. Eight years ago, he strengthened his resolve and accepted his deplorable fate with grace and dignity, expiring quietly and taking the secrets that he holds dear and these forbidden feelings to the grave. 

_He's suffering the same affliction that struck the Tsarina_. 

The soft ringing emanating from his phone cut off his thoughts. He fished it out of his pocket and dread filled his heart as he saw the name on the screen. Anastasiya Dmitrievna's call is not something that he wants to receive. She often informs him that his life span has shortened considerably once again. With a heavy heart, he slides the answer button to answer it. 

"You will not believe who I examined today." her mischievous and excited voice greets his ear. 

"Who is it, Natsya? You sound so pleased." 

"The dear president! A colleague of mine called; told me that the president was carrying a red spider lily on his hand."

His heart leapt through his throat as terror seized his body. "Is he-" 

"No, he doesn't have the disease; it's heaven's warning. He seems to be a man that will not let his dreams, may it be regular or prophetic, to easily sway him. Do not worry; he's still oblivious about your condition." 

He sighed in relief and asked softly. "Is that all, Natsya?" 

"That would be all, Dima. See you soon!" 

She hung up and once again he's left at the mercy of his thoughts. Probabilities regularly consume Dmitry's mind; he ponders on it in his every waking moment. That what-ifs and the what-could have been. He noticed that there is a point in his life which stuck out like a sore thumb, the decision that he indecisively made as a 17-year-old would cross his mind. A moment of indecision changed his fate on a colossal scale; at first, he wanted to pursue Linguistics to follow in his mother's footsteps but later changed his mind and took up law instead. 

Dmitry said that he never regretted his choice, but there are rare moments that remorse clings to his soul, akin to a cat that dugs its nails too harshly on its owner's skin. He should have been steadfast and stood by his first choice; it would have ensured a quiet and strifeless life, cutting out the rest of the coincidences that would lead him to where he is now. 

Similarly to not choosing Linguistics, another decision comes to mind. He's given another chance to avoid his fate, but he opted to stay in the university to pursue graduate studies rather than to become an investigator at the prosecutor's office. Deep in his heart; he knew that he's unwilling to leave the doors of his university, driven by his anxiety of what the vast world will bring. When he reached such crossroads, he took the path less travelled, and now he knew why no one took this beaten path. It leads to a cliff edge, and it is urging him to answer its call, to let himself fall. 

He did not predict that such choices would strip him off of his autonomy. These choices moulded him to become a fettered songbird, content on its gilded cage and dependent on its owner for survival. Happily gobbling up any scraps of affection that it could glean. 

_The herald of these sinister years to come; came to him on a bright spring day; his presence is an antithesis to the season for he is winter's chill personified._

_Those eyes._

He shuddered as he met that gaze which knocked out the last vestiges of sleep from his mind. Icy, devoid of emotions and calculating, the eyes that stare intently at him belongs to the new talk of the town: Vladimir Vladimirovich Putin. His colleagues advised him to avoid the man at all costs. He's not a measly administrator in the International Affairs section but an agent planted by the KGB to look for potential recruits. The man's hawkish gaze scours the student body for those who might meet the criteria to be a spy for the motherland. 

Dmitry Anatolyevich sighs and stares at his watch; it's 10 minutes past three, and he's late for his final class of the day. He bolted out of his seat and started shoving his lesson plans inside his bag quickly, neatly stacking the books that he scanned and went out of the room rapidly—such a disgraceful act for a newly minted associate professor. Anxiety batters his mind throughout his first day of teaching, and he decided to seek refuge in the library. He was not expecting that he'll fall asleep while editing his lesson plans. 

He smiles as he approaches his classroom to try and dispel the self-doubts that gobble up his nerves, but terror floods his being when he hears a set of footsteps steadily following him. He turned his head and nearly froze as he saw the spy a few feet behind him, a predator eyeing and sizing up its prey. He scrambled to the door and opened it hastily to avoid the man. His students who were rising to their seats settled down quickly. He cleared his throat and composed himself as he went to the table. 

"Sorry, I am late." he flashed an uneasy smile at their defeated faces.

He went ahead and taught Roman Law while a constant thought nags his mind that someone is watching him at the door. From time to time, he glances at the door and scolds his paranoia filled mind when his eyes meet nothing. Dmitry knows that he's not that interesting to catch Vladimir's attention, but he has this hunch that cannot shake off that he'll see the spy often. 

_He can no longer avoid him; it seems._

It's a beautiful spring day; the birds chirped their sweet songs and the rhododendron bush on the distance flaunts its pink blooms. A soothing breeze passes by and ruffles his hair as he walks towards Smolny Institute. However, the weather does not ease the unpleasant feeling of foreboding on his heart. Dmitry sighs as his mind muses about Vladimir Vladimirovich; after causing terror throughout the campus for three months with his steely gaze, he disappears.

He's quite thankful for the spy's departure as the atmosphere in the university became relaxed, and he no longer has to evade someone or look at his back from time to time. His heart thuds loudly on his chest; Dmitry should calm down. He's meeting with the chairman of the Leningrad City Council to heed his request, and it also happens to be his former civil law professor, Anatoly Alexandrovich Sobchak. 

His mind is whispering that he should leave as he winds down the chairman's office. He dispels such thoughts and waits as the secretary opens the door, announces his arrival to the man in the room and bids him go inside. Steeling himself, he went inside and faltered for a moment as he saw a familiar man sitting on one of the chairs in front of the desk, amicably talking to Anatoly Alexandrovich. 

"Dima!" steel blue eyes glinted in delight as Anatoly Alexandrovich gestured for him to take the other seat. 

He did, albeit, reluctantly and he could feel that icy gaze zeroed on him as he sat down. He nervously swallowed he hushed his screaming mind to quiet down. It wants him to quit right away, to flee. The polite side of him does not want to appear as someone ungrateful for such an appointment. If his former professor trusts the spy enough to let him in his office, then he might not be as horrible as what his mind suggests. 

"Vladimir Vladimirovich, this is Dmitry Anatolyevich. He's also a former student of mine and from now on your co-advisor." the professor introduced the frigid man and he saw the KGB agent extending his hand for a handshake. 

"Nice to meet you." he chirped as he grasped the offered hand softly. Vladimir's strong and calloused hand gripped his tightly, and he nearly winced at the intensity. A soft but nervous smile flitted through his lips as they parted. 

"I look forward to working with you, Dmitry Anatolyevich," Vladimir said softly, giving him a small smile that did not reach his eyes. 

"I do hope you'll get along well." 

"I'll try, Anatoly Alexandrovich," he replies, and he watches as the city council deputy stands up from his seat. He and the spy mimicked the man, and they went out of the office. The deputy started to spew the reforms that he wanted to put forth on the next council meeting. 

He pulled out a tickler notebook and a pen from his pocket and started jotting down the man's ideas. They went to the adjacent office, and the chairman introduced him to the team. As he mingled with the staff, he could tell that Vladimir's gaze has never strayed away from him. 

_Curse him and his rotten luck._

_Vladimir managed to worm his way into his heart._

He tried his best to limit the interaction between him and Vladimir Vladimirovich. However, fate does work in twisted ways by springing up unwanted twists and turns that renders your efforts futile. She's a cruel mistress for forcing you to face the person that you have been evading.   
  
He must admit that the man is endearing to some extent; a bit brash and rough around the edges. A good conversationalist despite the occasional dark humour. It never dawned on him that as a spy, Vladimir would be a master in human relations; he can mimic your beliefs to appear more likeable. The KGB agent tries to stir up conversations with him, and he tries his best to give one-line answers; however, he cannot stop himself from replying longer as they discuss history or law. 

They are currently handing fliers out of the cold streets of Saint Petersburg. After restructuring the city governance so that there would be mayoral elections, the chairman announced that he wished to run as mayor in the city's June 1991 elections. His and Vladimir's work shifted from advising the chairman with his policies to manning Anatoly Alexandrovich's election campaign. 

Vladimir is persistent in doing this trivial task with him, despite being assigned to schedule town hall meetings. The pile of fliers on the spy's hand dwindled quickly, as he intimidated passersby with his chilling stare to take one. Dmitry can't blame them because he felt the same way when Vladimir looks at him with those sharp eyes. He's chatting politely with an old woman inquiring about the city council chairman's platforms when Vladimir snatches the fliers from his hands and gives it away. 

The old lady thanked him for his time, and the last pamphlet handed out. He should be handling this task alone; everyone's hesitant to ask questions when Vladimir's around. A hand tapped his shoulder, jolted him from his thoughts, and he turned around and saw the spy's face smiling slightly. 

"Care to join me for a drink?" Vladimir asked, and he was about to turn it down when he saw that the typical icy gaze softens and it made him see the man in a new light. Standing at the cold street as snow billows at them, something tugs at his heart as he sees him in another light. There's vulnerability and loneliness in that strong shoulders and to the awkward shuffle of his feet. 

"Alright," he says, and he lets the man steer him towards a nearby pub. He'll just have a drink and call it a day, and he still has to grade papers. 

Dmitry enters into the establishment uneasily; he doesn't do well in this kind of place. He prefers his solitude and the quietness of his home. Dmitry settled to sit on a table situated in the far corner of the pub, which is a bit quieter than the rest. He pulled out some of the papers from his bag and started grading them, a smile flitting through his lips as his pen glides on the sheet writing out corrections and underlining the essay's good point. The soft clinking of glass against the table distracts him from his work, Dmitry looks up and meets Vladimir's eyes. 

"Take a break, Dima." he froze, and the hand that went to touch the glass of beer in front of him stilled. The man continues as he sat down "I am sorry if I assumed that we're close I-"

"No, it's fine," he cut the man off and grasped his glass and took a sip of beer. "Thank you, Volodya." 

The man perked up at the use of his nickname, and they fell in comfortable silence. The occasional clinks of their glasses and the scratch of his pen against the paper disrupt the stillness. His mind is egging him to confirm its fears, and he decided to humour the question; to put an end to his curiosity. He paused at his task and settled his pen down; the agent raised an eyebrow at him as he finished his pint. 

"What do you do as a KGB agent?" he blurted out. Vladimir let out a sigh and placed his empty glass into the table. 

"Would you believe me that it's contrary to what your mind assumes?" the man asked and Dmitry gave him a hesitant nod. "I merely collect press clippings; it's not the grand spying adventures from what they depicted in the movies and novels."

He's astounded by Vladimir's answer. "I see."

The man's reply destroyed the images painted by his mind of Vladimir, in his KGB uniform, pointing a gun at some unknown figure and shooting them. It was laughable even that his fellow advisor sounded disappointed. Despite the relief and silliness that it brought to his heart, a part of him cautions to be wary of Vladimir. Dmitry's hunch supplied that he's a fly enticed to land on the spider's web of lies.

 _A wolf is hiding behind a mask, waiting to sink his teeth into his hapless body._

The election campaign ended, and Anatoly Alexandrovich won the mayoral seat. He went back to his quiet, academic life once again, but a tempest brew in the distance bids it's time to come and wreak havoc. He heard that Anatoly Alexandrovich appointed Vladimir Vladimirovich as a deputy mayor in charge of the committees of external relations. He went out of the faculty room, and the sight that greeted him is a pleasant surprise. Vladimir is sitting at one of the lounge's plush chair; nursing a cup of tea in his hand. 

"Ah, the man I am waiting for." he approached him, and Vladimir settled the teacup on the table, stood up and offered his hand for him to shake. 

"What can I do for you, Vladimir Vladimirovich?" he hesitantly asked as they shook hands. 

"I need an adviser; I am hoping that you'll be up for the job." 

"I gladly accept your offer," he said happily, and the man smirked at his answer. 

_Why can't he say no?_   
_Perhaps, he did not want to see that look from the man's face._

It all started on the brief brushes of their hands as he handed him documents. His heart pounds, breath hitches and electricity surge through his veins during those accidental contacts. He cannot deny that since seeing the man's loneliness and vulnerability, he has developed a physical attraction towards him and a fluttery feeling in his heart. The icy blue eyes that penetrated his soul seem to know his deepest and sinful secrets, as its owner often leans towards him to whisper in his ear. Those chapped lips brushing at his earlobe sends shivers down his spine. Only his blond hair softens these sharp features on the man as it hits the light; however, it could never melt those devious eyes that remind him of cold Siberian winters, cold and unforgiving. 

_He cannot keep such secret desires for long._

The first blow to Vladimir came in the form of an investigation by the city's legislative council led by Mariya Salye. It is detrimental for the man who, along with Vladimir Anatolyevich, leads the city government on Anatoly Alexandrovich's stead; the mayor often takes international trips and dabbles too much on federal politics rather than running the city. 

It's a stressful night; they were sitting too close to one another. He can smell the metallic and musky perfume that the man wears. They were the only ones remaining in Smolny Institute as Dmitry helped Vladimir to bolster his defence against the case. He's losing himself in the man's gaze as it intently fixed on him as he droned on and on about how the man should structure his rebuttal. The grandfather clock tolled, Dmitry glanced at it, and his heart stopped and saw that it's midnight. He scrambled out of his seat and started packing his things; he could hear his cat's pitiful meow as it looked at the door longingly for him. 

"I have to leave, Volodya. We'll continue this tomorrow." he turned around to leave, but a hand on his wrist prevented him from doing so. 

The tension is palpable that a knife can cut it as he looks at Vladimir's bowed head. He felt a chill run through his spine as the man looked up and saw those eyes smouldering instead of its usual iciness. He unconsciously tugged his wrist out of Vladimir's grip, but it turned vice-like and unrelenting. A whirlwind swept through him, as he felt cold, chapped lips pressed against his. The deputy mayor licked his lips, asking for entrance, but the smell of his perfume overwhelmed his senses making his head spin. He groaned as his back painfully met the wall and Vladimir took this as an opportunity to deepen the kiss. The deputy mayor tongue eagerly explored his mouth, and he could taste the sweetness that lingered from the candy that he offered to him. 

As this happens, his heart and mind are engaged in an eternal war; Dmitry should put an end to this, says his mind, so go home, feed his cat and eat dinner. His heart silenced that thought for a different hunger needs to be taken care of, and this is what he craves, the ones that filled the crevices of his fantasies. His tongue shyly engaged Vladimir's into a passionate dance that the man returned with an enthusiasm that took every breath from his lungs. The deputy mayor skillfully divested his coat as he clutched the man's shirt tightly. Vladimir ripped his shirt open, and some of the buttons flew across the room, exposing his chest and his nipples hardening as it met the frigid air. A pang of sadness went through his heart as the man wrecked one of the shirts that he bought with his meagre salary.

Vladimir broke the kiss, and his oxygen-deprived lungs demanded that he gulped down air as much and as fast as he could. That icy gaze briefly bore into his before the deputy mayor starts planting open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of his neck down to his chest. He moaned loudly as a warm mouth nipped and engulfed one of his nipples, while a hand pinches and tugs at the other. His legs started wobbling at the intense pleasure that's coursing throughout his body. Vladimir's mouth let go of his nipple, and that wicked mouth ascending back to his neck, he craned it, giving the man better access. He felt the man's smirk against his skin before he bit his neck harshly. 

A hand deftly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his pants which pooled down his feet; shivers wracked through his spine as Vladimir lightly caressed his cock through his flimsy underwear. Vladimir seized from biting his neck; a tongue swiped the smarting bite as though in apology; he's quite sure that the man bit hard enough to leave a mark. The deputy mayor surveyed him, appraising the image of debauchery before him. A glint passes through the man's eyes that he can only interpret as pleasure when fingers hooked itself on his underwear's waistband and pulled it down to his calves, his hands released its hold from Vladimir's shirt and tried to cover his jutting cock. 

A hand gripped both of his wrists and pinned it above his head, the other ghosted down his chest and gripped his cock tightly and stroked him slowly. His eyes rolled, and he's breathing rapidly as the calloused hand creates incredible friction on his member. Dmitry panted, and he could feel a thread of his saliva sliding out of the corner of his lip as the sensations became too unbearable. He shudders as Vladimir licks that trail and kisses him harshly while increasing his strokes; his hips starting to thrust forward, following the rhythm established by the deputy mayor; he breaks out of the kiss to let out a loud moan. 

Vladimir snickers as he peppered kisses on his chest. "Don't be shy, Dima. Moan loudly for me." 

He does, and he could feel himself reaching his orgasm as the deputy mayor sucks and licks his nipples once again. "Volodya." he gasped out, and he could hear a low, pleased rumble from the man as his seed spills into the deputy mayor's hand. 

"Can't hold it in?" Vladimir smirked, and he nodded.

He's transfixed at the groaning man as he licked his cum off his hand, treating the musky liquid as though it was a libation for him. Vladimir relaxes his hold on his aching wrists, but he whirls him around and slams him into a nearby table, the action taking his breath away. 

With shaking arms, it took all of his might to raise himself and looked at Vladimir. His face heats up when he feels something cold and wet prodding at his entrance and goes in harshly. It must be the man's fingers he thought as he felt another one going inside of him, stretching him up. Dmitry let out a gasp as the fingers hit something inside of him that set his body ablaze. A sense of emptiness envelops him as the fingers retracted, but replaced by Vladimir's cock that pokes at his entrance teasingly. 

Vladimir leaned down and whispered in his ear "How I long for this moment." 

A wail exited his throat as the man thrust harshly into him, Vladimir grabs his hips tightly. Dmitry feels uncomfortably full, and the deputy mayor did not still for a second, allowing him to get used to the strange sensation as he pounded mercilessly into him. His continuous moans and of their flesh slapping against each other meld into a raucous sound that fills the office. His heart soars as his deepest desire to be claimed by the deputy mayor is fulfilled and to know that he reciprocates his feelings made him frantic with need and shake with frenzy as his hips moved to meet every thrust. A hand released its unforgiving hold on his waist to turn his head. 

"You must taste yourself, Dima." Vladimir's lips claimed his, and he tasted his bitter seed on the man's tongue. Tears streamed down his face as inexplicable pleasure took hold of his body as the deputy mayor kept hitting that spot that made him melt and see stars. His pace became erratic, and the man's hand went to his cock to stroke him once again. 

"Come with me."

A low, drawn-out moan, intermingled with his soft gasp, he could feel the man's warm seed coating his inside. Vladimir collapsed on top of him and peppered soft kisses on his nape; they lay there for a moment basking in the afterglow. Their soft pants became a sweet melody, a secret aria that his heart sang in the darkest moments. The clock tolls once again, the magic of the moment vanishes when Vladimir pulls out of him. He hears the faint clinking of a belt buckle as the man puts his pants back on. 

Dmitry stood up unsteadily; his weak legs are doing its hardest to support his weight. He started to dress quietly, sighing as he closed the remaining button of his shirt. Vladimir startled him when he brandished his coat towards him, and he took it slowly. The deputy mayor's hand grasped his chin, forcing him to meet the icy blue eyes. 

"I'll be seeing you tomorrow." the man told him coldly, placing a sharp peck on his lips and walked out of the room. 

_Vladimir's abrupt departure shattered the illusion of his heart._

He put on the rest of his clothes numbly and staggered out of the room. His mind is reeling from what has transpired; he felt used, cheated. Yet, this hapless organ on his chest wants to pursue this crooked road of attaining the man's affection. A prisoner of his emotions, he will only bow to its commands. 

The commute back to his home became arduous as people stared at his dishevelled state. His mind and heart are too preoccupied as they resumed war and ignored such stares. His thoughts reprimand him for not listening to it, weren't the warning that they provided enough that Vladimir is a dangerous man who only takes and never gives? He opens the door of his flat, and he disregards the cat brushing at his legs and incessantly meowing at him for food. 

Dmitry went to the bathroom, opened the shower and let the water pelt his body, soaking his clothes. He slid down into the floor and curled up into a ball as his warm tears mingled with the icy water. Misery stabbed his heart as Dmitry grieves for something that he can never gain. He did not pay mind to the desperate mews and the frantic scratching of the bathroom door. 

_Stupid, so stupid._

_Vladimir's dirty little secret._

He numbly followed Vladimir and the film crew that he hired for a documentary; hysterical laughter wanted to burst forth from his mouth. Similar to what has happened to him, the deputy mayor has them on the palm of his hand. They took the vulnerability that he's showing as genuine for the man perfected a mirage around him. He wanted to project an image of an able leader; one that is in tune with his constituents wants and needs, and to come clean about his past. 

_Power?_

He snorted as he heard the title, isn't that too blatant? He knew of the former's spy thirst for power; he saw it simmering underneath that emotionless gaze, in the way the man exerted his control over him. Power would only fuel Vladimir's tendencies to take everything that he wanted; he shudders at the thought. His deluded heart wholeheartedly believes that Vladimir is sincere; that there might be a part of him that wanted to serve and enact these reforms in this city. 

The city's glamour is a farce, underneath the elegant façade hid its deterioration. Crime rates are steadily rising, corruption is rampant and with a crumbling infrastructure; he's at its centre. His heart pounded painfully on his chest as he realised that he's complicit with the atrocities. He deviated from his beliefs, a complete and utter self-betrayal. However, his heart is at peace in comparison to the turmoil on his mind; it is delighted that it has served its Lord. 

He needs to protect his foolish heart. A few months later, he married his closest friend and confidant. Guilt drowned his soul; he's a terrible burden that Sveta has to bear for the rest of her life. Despite the other party consents, he felt that he's depriving her happiness; her reassurance did nothing to alleviate the guilt. He should not drag someone into this cursed path of loneliness. 

_'You belong to me, Dmitry Anatolyevich.'_

His marriage did not deter Vladimir nor considers it as an obstacle that he needed to overcome; the deputy mayor removes the symbol denoting his status as a married man as he took him. He went home to his wife that night filled with shame and regret as bruises and bite marks littered his body that Vladimir left behind for his wife to see. Undeterred by such a sight, Sveta nursed his wounds and soothed his horrified heart. She enveloped him in a warm embrace, telling him that it would be alright, a promise that she would eradicate the man's influence on the hapless organ beating at his chest. 

The following morning he saw the deputy mayor's eye glinting in amusement as he spied his unblemished neck in the distance. Sveta is kind enough to conceal the bite mark to preserve his dignity. 

The only way for this to stop is to leave the man's hold physically. An opportunity presented itself in the form of a job, to become the legal affairs director of a timber company. Without hesitation, he took it as this is the only way to shake Vladimir off. He wrote his resignation calmly and handed it to the deputy mayor's secretary. He met that icy gaze and gave him a soft smile as he walked out of Smolny Institute with a light spring on his steps. However, his heart is in tatters as he wrenched it away from the one that it holds dear. 

_A commanding and sharp pain on his chest made itself known._

__

_The pain in his chest lingered._

After he resigns from the committee of external relations, his life is as ordinary as it can get. Sveta gave birth last year to a beautiful baby boy that completed their promises on their pact. He lives a peaceful life as he divides and devotes his time to the university and the lumber company. He has co-authored a civil law textbook that became too popular, and his heart swelled at his achievements. 

However, the pain on his chest became ever-present, and he kept soothing it. Alarming his wife who urged him to seek out medical attention in fear that it might be a sign of a heart condition. At her continuous badgering and insistence, he had himself checked. Nothing came up from all the tests done to him. He's perfectly fine and healthy; even his x-ray does not show any abnormalities on his chest and heart. At his third visit, the doctor that he's seeing, Boris Alexandrovich sighed and wrote a name and address to a piece of paper and handed it to him. 

"Consult with her, she might know something about your unusual symptom." he nodded and apologised profusely for the troubles that he has caused, but the man waved him off so he can entertain his next patients. 

He scheduled a Moscow trip to find out the cause of the constant sharp pain on his chest. He has saved enough royalties from the sales of the civil law textbook and his salary to buy a train ticket to Moscow. His heart thudded loudly on his chest as his anxiety consumed him; this is his first trip to the capital. The farthest that he's been to is in Belgorod. In his childhood as his family takes an annual trip there to visit his grandparents.

By the time that he reached Moscow, his heart was in his throat as he hailed a cab and told the driver where to go. He held on to dear life as the driver sped up, did he say to him that he was in a hurry? He racked up his brain, but nothing came up. A few minutes later, his torturous car ride ended, and it stopped in front of a large greenhouse. 

_Is he in the right place?_

Despite the atrocious driving, he paid the driver handsomely and asked him to wait for him. The greenhouse located at the deep parts of the city and he cannot see any cars passing by. He took a deep breath and went inside; it was similar to the botanical garden back in St Petersburg. However, there's a peculiar scene all around him: men and women are expelling flowers from their mouth mixed with their blood as nurses fuss over them. His eyes widened and started to leave, but a warm hand on his shoulder prevented him from doing so. 

Dmitry turned around and saw startling bottle-green eyes obscured by thick glasses, and a mop of dirty blonde hair frames her delicate face. "You must be the one that Boris Alexandrovich referred to me, are you from St. Petersburg?" 

"Yes," he stuttered, and she extended her hand.

"Anastasia Dmitrievna."   
  
He hesitantly took her hand and shook it. "Dmitry Anatolyevich. Yes, I am the one referred to by Dr Boris Alexandrovich."

"Let's go to my office." She led him to an adjacent door which reminds him of a research laboratory. The woman's study is a mess as he saw papers littering the office floor with names of patients, isn't this breaking confidentiality as she leaves these files in the open? He tried his best to not step on the papers as he crossed the room and sat on the only available chair, careful not to upturn the stack of papers beside it.   
  
Anastasiya seems to be scavenging for something and whooped as she held the stethoscope aloft and approached him. "May I examine you?" she asked, and he nodded. 

She checked his breathing, and he noticed that she kept nodding her head as she listened. She removed the stethoscope buds in her ears and placed it on top of her desk. "Well, you do possess that weird breathing pattern which is the onset symptom of the hanahaki disease. But I cannot fully diagnose you and start the treatment without knowing what flower blooms within. Come back to me if you expel a flower petal." 

"Is that possible? It seems absurd that our bodies can do that," he told her, and she laughed at his query.

"This disease is quite rare, Dmitry Anatolyevich and I specialise in it. It is a disease born out of unrequited love. Once planted, its roots and flowers will expand on your lungs, killing you. The progression of the disease might take months or years; some take a decade before they expel a petal. The treatment is simple: a heartfelt confession from your object of affections does the trick or surgery. There is some truth on the adage that too much love will kill you."

"I see, I'll come back then." she nodded and gestured for him to leave, and he tried to evade the patient files once again, she should clean up her office for it is a potential fire hazard. 

He almost did not want to leave as he remembers the driver waiting for him outside. He is a bit miffed that he wasted the royalties of his textbook for a somewhat worthless trip, but it did fuel his curiosity. He hopes that the pain on his chest will turn out as a heart condition rather than the one that he saw today, as he vowed never to set foot in this weird clinic again. Thankfully the cab driver did wait for him. As he embarks the car to go back to the city, his mind wandered briefly to the man he left behind three years ago. 

He heard that when Anatoly Alexandrovich lost his re-election bid, Vladimir went to Moscow and appointed as the deputy chief of the Presidential Property Management Department. He's sure that this will open avenues for the man, to claim what he desires the most. He went home, ignoring his heart's whispers to seek out Vladimir Vladimirovich. 

_A phone call changes the course of his life._

"Dima, there's a phone call for you." the secretary at the law firm called out, and he hurriedly went to her desk, thanked her and grabbed the phone from her hand. 

"Hello, who am I speaking with?" 

"Dima." he froze; it's been six years since he last heard that voice. 

"Vladimir Vladimirovich, what can I do for you?" he evenly said as he sat on the edge of the secretary's desk and scrambled to get a piece of paper and pen. 

"I need a personal lawyer, and you came to mind. Can you go to Moscow to fill this position?" 

He considered the man's proposal, but his mind started whispering to him, but he quieted his thoughts. Surely, Vladimir changed, six years have passed, and he might not be the same man back then. He swallowed hard and nervously replied "I need to consult this decision with my wife. I thank you for the generous offer, Vladimir Vladimirovich." 

The fraction of a second silence on the other line spoke to him in such a way that it stopped his breath. Vladimir expects that he'll wholly agree to it right away, but his reluctance to do so instilled displeasure to the man. His heart willingly wants to gamble the simple and safe life that it had built, to heed Vladimir's request. He does not understand; there are more capable lawyers in the capital who would serve the prime minister with enthusiasm; Vladimir's rise in federal politics has been meteoric. 

"I hope that you'll consider this job offer, Dima."

_The disconnect tone blared out of the headset._

_Four months have passed since receiving the phone call._

He cannot meet his wife's eyes as they packed their bags to move to the capital; she dons a knowing smile and worry fills her eyes. He accepted Vladimir's job offer, and Dmitry found himself at the centre of a tidal wave that will upend the political landscape. A month after he set foot in Moscow, Boris Nikolayevich resigned, and the prime minister became the acting president. Dmitry trembles as an imaginary chill take hold of his body, and his hand unconsciously goes to his wrist as he feels the phantom bite of the necktie that binds it. 

Vladimir Vladimirovich did not forget his abrupt departure six years ago and has punished him for it. His worst fears manifested itself; it did further his tendencies to possess something or someone even if it's merely a whim. The powers that a president wields gives him leeway to exact these desires. He's no longer the man's lawyer, but his campaign manager as Vladimir decided that he'll stay on as the president. His heart leapt painfully at his throat as Vladimir toyed with various men and women, a bitter taste coated his mouth, but he hid it with a smile. 

_A test of his strength._

He could only hope that the election campaign ends soon, but Vladimir made it clear that he can no longer leave his side through a simple gesture. As the election campaign staff posed for a group photo he placed himself on the far left not wanting to attract attention to himself, however; saw those icy gaze fixed at him and its owner's hand beckons him to come hither at his side. He reluctantly went to stand beside him, and satisfaction exudes from Vladimir. 

_But among them_   
_He was the fool_   
_For falling for him_

Vladimir forced him to enter a world where his delicate and gentle nature was not needed, and these dispositions are considered subpar from cunning and greed. He finds himself a fish out of the water, and he eased himself into the treacherous world of federal-level politics. Dmitry gave everything that the president wishes with ruthless efficiency, and if possible, Dmitry would gladly lay down the whole world at Vladimir's feet. He remoulded himself and became someone that he can no longer look at the mirror. 

_He dearly hopes that he's the favourite amongst the other dolls._

"As I pass on to Dmitry Anatolyevich these ensembles of power. I wish him success."

He clapped politely along with the rest before Vladimir took his place, their eyes briefly met. A disapproving stared into his haunted eyes; he should have said no. He should have rejected the offer to safeguard this precarious seat of power; his lips felt heavy as it took all of his willpower to lift it for a small smile. 

"Following Article 82.1 of the Russian Federation Constitution, to take presidential office, the President-elect swears an oath set by the Constitution. Mr Medvedev, I ask you to swear the oath." the chairman of the Constitutional Court, Valery Dmitrievich, stepped down from the podium. 

_With false bravado, he went to the podium and placed a shaking hand on the constitution._

"I swear that in exercising the powers of the President of the Russian Federation, I shall respect and protect human and civil rights and freedoms, observe and protect the Constitution of the Russian Federation, protect the sovereignty and independence, security and integrity of the state, and faithfully serve the people." 

He wanted to run, to escape but the show must go on for he cannot let Vladimir down. He chose him rather than his most trusted siloviki. However; the man did not select him for his merits but his lack of political ambitions. The tolls of the Spasskaya Tower sealed his fate; anointed as Russia's temporary president for four desolate years. 

_A decision that he genuinely regrets._

Jealousy corrodes his heart, an acid that steadily burns and strips its tender flesh; it is consistently clawing his imperturbability away. He saw Vladimir's eye mischievously glinting as he received a coquettish gaze from Alina Kabaeva. He can feel it, the distance that is steadily creeping between his prime minister and him. There's always been a distance. Kept at arm's length; a familiar presence and yet estranged at the same time. 

_He has no right._

He buried those feelings within, and he has no right to demand nor ask his rightful place in Vladimir's eyes. He knows the answer to this question, for it is the inconvenient truth that his mind whispered to him all those years ago. A sudden pain made itself known on his chest, making his eyes water and taking his breath for a moment. 

_The distance grew further._

Vladimir's informal address towards him is merely a show to denote that he has a harmonious relationship with him. He retains to speak to him formally in front of the cameras, Vladimir preferred it this way. Dmitry can only drop such formalities in privacy, where Vladimir reminds him that he is nothing more than his puppet. 

_His heart continues to throb as it yearns, as he suppresses it not to beg for the man's affection._

Considered as the lesser evil in the government saturated by the siloviki, the Russian people put their hopes on him that he will be the change that they are craving. He knows that following his path and straying from the blueprint laid out for him would only worsen the rift between him and his beloved. It's bittersweet, their ideals and the people's wishes tore them apart. He knew that Vladimir's paranoia is worsening, and his experiment by dangling democratic ideals will only break its stability. 

He had committed another betrayal when he allowed the protest against Vladimir's ascension back to the presidency. Vladimir's gaze is full of accusation, as though he finally revealed his true colours; that he harbours political ambition. His beloved's reaction is more painful than the utter disregard and apathy that he received from the man. 

_Vladimir doesn't know him at all._

_An ordinary day._

It was a typical day, perhaps, for his standards. Sveta is urging him to get up because he'll be late for Vladimir's third inauguration. He's bathing at that time when a sharp, searing and stabbing pain seized his chest. A scratchy and fuzzy feeling crept upon his throat, as though he swallowed a wad of Dorofei's fur; he coughed to dispel such an uncomfortable sensation. Something spewed out of his mouth, a glob of blood and a crimson petal fell into the shower floor. 

He’s stunned as he slid down to the floor, watched as the drain eagerly sucked his blood—the red liquid swirling on the pristine white tiles. A shaky hand reached out and grabbed the flower petal on the floor—the doctor's words ringing through his mind as the shower pelts his body vigorously with near-scorching waters. 

_"Come back to me if you expelled a flower petal."_

He got up immediately and went through the rest of his routine in a frenzied state. He placed the flower petal in a handkerchief and ordered his driver to make a sojourn to the clinic that he vowed not to visit 16 years ago. As he went out of his car, the sight of the greenhouse/clinic shook him out of his stupor. He hurriedly entered the clinic, ignoring the shouts of the nurse that chased him. 

He saw her looking at her lotus pond in deep contemplation and turned around to face him. She gave him a gentle smile, but he merely presented her with the handkerchief on his hand. She took it gingerly and opened it to reveal the red petal within. Dmitry noticed her green-bottle eyes widening, and she grabbed his arm and dragged him towards his office. Unceremoniously, he's pushed into the only vacant chair in the room as she started to rummage for something in her office. 

She pulled out a worn book underneath the piles of paper and thumbed through it quickly; she nodded to herself and handed it to him. "You are unfortunate, Dmitry Anatolyevich." 

He numbly took the book; his heart skipped a beat and tears welled up in his eyes as he stared unbelievingly at the information of the flower that came out of him as if it's a horrible joke. 

_The red spider lily is an incurable variant of the hanahaki disease._

_It signals that the object of their affection can never reciprocate their love._

_**These two lines repeat itself in his mind as though they are the mantras and affirmations that he utters when he does yoga.** _

Anastasiya Dmitrievna snatched the book gently from his grasp and placed it back on her desk. He snickers hollowly and his hands took hold and tore at his hair, to release the frustration and disbelief that's taking over him. His breathing turned ragged as he looked at her in a daze as hysteria filled his mind. 

"I'm stupid, so stup-" he vocalises what his mind shouted all those years ago however Anastasiya cuts him off. 

"This is not the time to berate yourself; I need you to listen to me." he watches as she sat at one of the numerous stacks of books and looked at him sternly. He nodded and tried to keep himself afloat and snap himself out of his mental breakdown. 

"Sadly, I do not have enough data about this type of hanahaki. You are Russia's second case, the one that preceded you took place 400 years ago. According to her memoirs, distance from the object of her affections helped stretch her lifespan. Outliving her beloved for ten years and dying at 62. Proximity will only worsen your condition and will hasten your death. It would be wise to part with your government job, be distant with Vladimir Vladimirovich." 

He shakily smiled as surprise mixed with the doom and gloom on his heart. "How did you know?" 

She rolled her eyes at him. "Painfully obvious, Vladimir Vladimirovich is the only one that's oblivious to it. Your gaze conveys such intense love and pining that it hurts to look at you when I watch you on television." 

His face felt hot, and he's confident that he's as red as a beet. The mind wanders back at the usual thing that eats up his thoughts: probabilities. His mortality rarely crosses his mind; it is one of the things that he never accounts for as he played different scenarios of what-ifs and what could have been. He thought that he'd die from old age, supporting and loving Vladimir from afar. 

_He's dying, a catastrophe brought forth by the weakness of his heart._

He cannot stay away from Vladimir. For him, no matter how mundane it is, living his life to the fullest entails staying within the four walls of his White House doing and entertaining Vladimir's every command and whims. He will not stay away for he is determined to serve the man that his heart holds dear until his dying breaths. With a renowned sense of determination, he wrings his hands and anxiously looks at her. 

"I do not want to part with him, and I intend to be at his side until I pass. Is there anything that you can do to help me?" 

The incredulous expression that paints her face niggles at his heart; however, he sees that she's deliberating to take on his request. He wonders if others before him took the same path - the depressive road of loneliness accompanied by the guilt on their heart; a road paved by the thousand of words never spoken and shattered dreams. She perked up and offered him a determined smile. 

"If you are certain, then, I will do my best to help you stay alive for as long as you can." 

He beamed at her gratefully; he stood up from his seat and offered his hand, and she grasped it. They briefly shook hands to seal the deal between them. She escorts him out of her office, and he feels that the nurse is glaring daggers at him for disrupting such a tranquil place. As he went inside his car, he raised the division to give himself some privacy and let the tears trickle down his face. 

_Thus, this is the start of masking his dilapidating health by using his sunny disposition as a pretence._

“Prime Minister?” a voice from the intercom brought him out of his reverie.

“What is it?” he softly as he hid the blood-stained handkerchief and Eudoxia Fedorovna’s biography on his desk drawer. 

"The president is here for the new year's eve meeting. Should I let him in?"

"You may," he stood up from his seat and went to the centre of the room. He briefly glanced at the window and saw his tired reflection.

 _He’s in dire need of rest._

The door swung open, and the president entered the room. Age has not been kind to his beloved, the blond hair that he loved has long since faded to grey, and it reflected his frailty as he steadily withered. However, the eyes remained the same, never losing its potency. It is still the bright and emotionless icy blue that reminds him of desolate Siberian winters. The president extended and he grasped it for a handshake, the same intense hold but a tad bit too strong. There’s something different on the grip, it’s not a mere greeting but as though the president is reassuring himself that what is in front of him is real. 

He gestured for the man to sit down and he started to give his end of the year report before meeting with the ministers. The national projects which launched recently are not going as swimmingly as he had hoped; a few key projects missed their deadlines. Vladimir frowned at his bleak news, but then this is not new. He’s failing to meet the man’s expectation; perhaps, seen as sabotage. Dmitry admits that he’s losing his touch. 

Vladimir regarded him coldly as he laced his fingers together. “It would be prudent for you and your government to resign. Such delays will impede the succession plans.” 

_"Remember that you cannot leave my side without my permission, Dima."_

An apparent dismissal, Vladimir Vladimirovich no longer needs his presence in frontline politics. The roots are starting to restrict his lungs as his mind took the president’s words as his rejection. His hidden sorrows and regret gnaw at his soul; suffocating him. Dmitry flashed him a brilliant smile, despite his heart quivering at his chest. 

_If that is what the Lord wishes, thy will be done._

“Understood, Vladimir Vladimirovich. I’ll make the necessary plans and break the news to the ministers to ensure a smooth transition,” he softly said. 

“I’ll appoint you as the deputy chairman of the Security Council, Dima.” the president reached out to ruffle his hair, a comforting gesture that he has missed. 

His soul tore itself to shreds, and his heart leapt painfully in longing. No, he can no longer fulfil another government position. He stood up, breaking the comforting gesture and paced towards the window to stare at Moscow’s twinkling lights. With his back turned to Vladimir Vladimirovich, he took a deep breath before spilling out his final wish. 

“Sir, I no longer wish to hold another government position. I’ve been in politics for two weary decades, and my heart yearns for the simple life that I once had. Please allow me to retire.” 

“If that is your wish. However, if I call for you; I expect that you will heed it.” the president told him dismissively. He saw the icy gaze looking at him in displeasure and knew that the man was humouring him. He knows Vladimir like the back of his hand; he’ll devise ways to chain him back to his side. He can rescind his approval of his request if he wishes. 

"Of course."

_Lies_   
_He won't be able to heed them_   
_A month from now_   
_He would not be able to stay by his side_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please tell me what you think!
> 
> Chapter 2 will be uploaded soon. I hope you enjoyed the additional scenarios :D
> 
> A small playlist for this chapter to set the mood:
> 
> 1\. I Talk to the Rain - Tsubasa Reservoir Chronicles OST  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OisxV-pJwZE
> 
> 2\. The Voice in My Heart - Violet Evergarden OST  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bvDLlTFQ1zs&t=13s
> 
> 3\. Ice Pond - 2nd Moon [Princess Hours (Goong OST)]  
> YT:https://youtu.be/BZYVj8P2D18
> 
> 4\. Fox Rain - Lee Sun Hee (My Girlfriend is a Gumiho OST)  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o1I87SHTh9c


	3. Chapter II: I Pray to Stop My Cry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! 
> 
> Welcome to another instalment of Flower Rain!  
> This chapter is supposedly Dima's Chapter 4 but I decided to make it the second one instead.  
> Succeeding chapters will be as follows: Chapter 3 (Sveta), Chapter 4 (Slava) & Chapter 5 (Finale) 
> 
> Songs to set the mood:
> 
> I Pray to Stop My Cry: KOTOKO  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nueJvP-eMU0
> 
> Will Be Back: Sun Hae Im  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DcPNbPjaJoc
> 
> Missing: Evanescence  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E_mU-Z-bKbw
> 
> If Heaven Has Compassion by A-Lin  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ryoRYNk2x10

_I long to go away from your side; but I dare not, for fear my cowardice should become known to you.  
_ _That is why I hold my head high and carelessly come into your presence.  
_ _Constant thrusts from your eyes keep my pain fresh forever._

_**-The Gardener Sonnet #41 by Rabindranath Tagore** _

_I salute my Sovereign, the Tsar Peter Alexeyevich_.

 _Your humble servant implores you to listen: your son and I have no part in any plans to depose you. I am knocking on your heart, my Lord, on the ounce of affection that you harbour towards our son, I implore you to spare him. Let him be free; let him live the life that he seeks._

_As your servant that took the monastic vow; I did nothing but pray to the Holy Mother to aid you to attain greatness. My Lord, I do know that you'll never spare me your affections nor will believe my utterance in this letter, my life's very purpose is to exalt you. I never wavered on my beliefs that you are a just and kind Sovereign._

_Eternally bowing before you, O Sovereign._

_Elena._

_He's under siege._

The prime minister slumped into his desk; a small thud echoed throughout his office as his forehead met the surface. His hand desperately clutched into his chest, and he took long, laboured breaths to stem the pain. Dmitry's other hand scrambles to find a lifeline that he could on; desperate not to drown, not to let the impending darkness swallow him. Aggravated by such powerful sentiment, crimson blooms and blood fluttered out of his lips as an unbearable burning sensation seized his lungs, the flowers rigorously cutting through his throat and lungs.

_"If we don't manage to do this, we'll have to admit that either I don't work effectively, or you all are working poorly and you will have to resign. I would like to draw your attention to the fact that currently, I am leaning towards the second option."_

He could feel the cold and crushing force of despair enveloping his body, freezing his insides. A wry smile presented itself on his lips as he watched that leaked footage; Dmitry knew that the news site that published it has connections to the Kremlin. It was intentional to have one of those cameras running, despite Vladimir ordering for an off-camera moment. The political persecution against him has begun, and his beloved is at its helm. After the president dressed down his ministers, the State Duma threatened to give a vote of no-confidence against him. 

_"I trust Dmitry Anatolyevich. I just trust him."_

No, it is one of many lies that Vladimir spewed to assure the people that he has complete trust in his chosen seat warmer during the 2008 electoral campaign. What other ways should he profess his loyalty to the president? Wasn't it enough that Dmitry meekly gave him back the presidency? Isn't it sufficient that he bears such persecution with a smile on his face as they discredit him? How can the prime minister assure him that he will never be a figurehead in a revolution against him? A dry chuckle followed the blood and flowers that continue to gush out of his mouth, staining his grey desk. 

The prime minister faintly hears his office door swinging open, and the hesitant footsteps that approached his desk. He hopes that it's one of his political enemies, so they'll prattle what they see to Vladimir and free him from this miserable post. A warmed hand encased his frantic hand, and with difficulty, he lifted his head and met the umber eyes of his first deputy prime minister. 

Dmitry swallowed some of the flowers and blood back down to speak "V-Vladislav Y-yuryevich?" he rasped out. 

The stern man assisted him to sit back straight and hushed him; Vladislav Yuryevich pulled out his handkerchief and started wiping the blood from his lips and chin. He breathes heavily as the roots assault his lungs, conquering every space within. Dismay is evident on the deputy prime minister's face as he stared at the mess in front of him. 

"No, this won't do." Vladislav Yuryevich left the room. A somewhat perplexing fellow, he's always been at the right place and time. It is the second incident that Russia's former Grey Cardinal has seen him in such a state. 

His office door opened slightly, and Vladislav Yuryevich slinked inside carrying a small basin and a spare black shirt on his hands. Vladislav settled it down on the extended part of the desk, and he dipped his handkerchief into the bowl and started to wipe Dmitry's face once again. Exhaustion took over him, and this prevented him from objecting to his deputy prime minister doing a tedious task of taking care of him. 

Vladislav gave a satisfied nod as he surveyed his face and proceeded to use the same handkerchief to wipe away the blood and flower petals from his desk. It is disconcerting that a gentle and caring aura replaces the usual snark and sarcasm that his deputy harbours for him. 

"You need to change." Vladislav threw his handkerchief into the blood tinted liquid and handed him the black shirt. 

Dmitry tiredly glanced down at his white shirt, trails of blood ruined its pristineness. With shaking hands, he tried to divest himself of his coat and shirt, but his fingers fumbled uselessly at the buttons. His face is a fierce crimson as embarrassment took hold of him, horrified by the weakness that prevents him from doing the most basic of tasks. Warm hands placed his hands on the armrests as Vladislav removed his clothes for him, the prime minister averted his gaze as his deputy helped him in putting on the black shirt so that he will not see the shame swimming in his eyes. Those hands lightly brush his neck as Vladislav closes the final button. 

"Thank you," he said softly and gave his deputy a pained smile.

"You're welcome." Vladislav walked away from him, took the basin and headed to the door. With his back turned, the man issues a warning, "May I remind you that we are surrounded by hounds who will tear you apart if you slipped. They will not be as lenient if they saw what has transpired in this office, Dmitry Anatolyevich." 

"Understood," he said. Dmitry noticed the man nodded slowly, seemingly satisfied with his answer and went on his way. 

The prime minister slumped into his chair as he tried to compose himself, his eyes lingered on the neatly folded bloodstained shirt on his desk. Despite barging into his office unannounced, his deputy cared enough to help him get his bearings. He grabbed the shirt and placed it into his desk drawer, hiding the dent of his calm nature. Dmitry also took a small vial filled with burgundy liquid, he pulled the stopper and drank its contents. 

A simple painkiller that will help him to alleviate the stabbing sensations from the roots on his lungs but with an added twist. Neurologically, the area of the brain that perceives emotional and physical pain are the same as what Natsya has explained to him. The doctor gave this prescription to cope with hanahaki's syndrome and at the same time to dull his emotions. Surviving another day entails that he needs to calm down the storm inside of him, but he cannot bear the numbness. He becomes a soul that floats in a spinning world as it seeks still grounds. 

_The heart is unfathomable, isn't it?  
_ _It will tirelessly love even as sorrow erodes it._

_A worst kept secret._

Politics used ballet as a background for its drama; it was a surreal experience to watch Swan Lake as the authorities assuage the public that everything is fine, that the August 1991 coup will not be the catalyst for the Soviet Union to crumble at an alarming rate. Another ballet has fallen to the same treatment: La Esmeralda. Dmitry let out a derisive snort as he watches this distasteful act unfolding on his television screen. On cue, the journalists hounded the first couple, as they went out during the ballet's intermission. 

Their appearances together are quite rare, Lyudmila Alexandrovna barely appears at state events and functions. She's also absent during this year's Easter Mass in which someone photoshopped a veil on Sergei Semyonovich's head to make him and Vladimir Vladimirovich look like a couple. Speculation and rumours saturate the gossip columns and internet forums that the president and his wife are living their separate lives. The public is merely waiting for the president to make the divorce official. 

The questions are rather tame at; first, they asked the following generic questions: 

_"Vladimir Vladimirovich, your thoughts about tonight's performance?"_

_"What can you say about the dancers?"_

They knew where this was going, the stunned look on Lyudmila Alexandrovna's eyes and the respectful distance from her husband and the use of their name and patronymics was a dead give away. Tonight, the Russian people will receive a confirmation on what they knew all along.

_"Why are you rarely seen with your wife, Vladimir Vladimirovich."_

Magically, an intermission break of a ballet act is a proper venue to address such personal questions to the president. A carefully planned show, Dmitry recognised that the journalist that opened the pandora's box of the president's marital status was a trusted Kremlin reporter. He averted his eyes from the cringeworthy scene and met the concerned cornflower blue eyes of his wife. Svetlana reached out and grabbed his hand comfortingly and turned her attention back to the screen; his friend seemed so relieved on behalf of Lyudmila. 

It's too evident that Lyudmila Alexandrovna is uneasy, as Vladimir tramples on her wish for privacy once again. He heard the pitiful woman's soft but robotic voice as she replied first to the interviewer; an automaton programmed to say a particular phrase. 

_"Our marriage is over because practically, we do not see each other."_

_"It is our joint decision,"_ the president added. 

Business partners breaking off their failed venture, that's how they sounded. Could it be that Vladimir Vladimirovich only sought marriage to further his career in the KGB? A marriage of convenience because a KGB agent needed a family as his cover for an overseas assignment? 

"What a crude bastard," Svetlana muttered beside him as she turned off the television. She glanced at him worriedly and continued, "He could have announced it without this added drama."

"It's not Vladimir Vladimirovich without the theatrics, Sveta. I cannot believe that his PR team are still pushing for a sex god depiction at his age," he told her quietly. 

"What do you feel about it?"

To be honest, he does not know what to feel about the news. Lyudmila's suffering on national television has little effect on him; he cannot empathise with her despite knowing what she feels. Consistently, he took pain relievers that have diminished his empathy and emotions over time. Should he feel happy about the news? Why would he? The president's heart already holds someone dear. 

"Nothing, Sveta." 

Sveta briefly gave him a sceptical look, and he gave her a hollow smile in return. Not being able to care and feel has its perks, the pain in his chest is not as painful, and his depressive thoughts that dampens his emotions are not lashing out more than they used to be. Disconcerted at first, he now basks on the unbearable numbness that creeps into his heart. 

_He has no right to feel elated.  
_ _Vladimir's heart will never be his._

_There's a fondness in those icy blue eyes._

Dmitry gulped down the scalding tea to wash off the acidic taste of disappointment and hurt in his mouth. Eight months ago, the Kremlin website posted that the divorce between Vladimir Vladimirovich and Lyudmila Alexandrovna finalised. The journalists cannot pass up this opportunity to know if the president holds someone dear to his heart, and they are very eager about it. The prime minister snorted as this inconsequential question heightened the atmosphere in Vladimir's annual press conference. On a whim, Dmitry decides to tune in to this year's conference; he rarely watches it for he knows what it contains. The president's soft but frigid voice blared out of the television.

_"Have you fallen in love with someone? My good friend asked, and I said certainly."_

He heard the ahhs at Vladimir's reply; saw the journalists' bated breaths as they waited for him to drop a name. Of course, the president will only give a teaser about his personal life but not the full details. It is an accepted norm in this political world that if one wants to search for the truth, they must follow the colourful road of rumours. He stared at the amber liquid resting within his teacup, known for its calming effects chamomile tea should ease his racing mind. 

_"He then asked: Is there someone that loves you back? I replied "certainly."_

Despair, loneliness and envy are stepping into his chest tightly, crushing his heart into myriads of pieces. He swore that he heard the muscles tore as it became undone, peeling itself strip by strip. He turns off the television and closes his eyes to rest his tired mind; the side-effect of his medicine is beckoning him to fall into the welcoming embrace of sleep. Dmitry let his heavy eyelids droop down, feeling his long lashes resting against his cheeks. 

He sinks into his chair as it became his beloved's broad chest on his mind's eye. His back against it and Dmitry huddled closer to feel more of Vladimir's warmth. Phantom fingers cards through his hair and an arm hooks on his waist, pulling him closer. Dmitry turned his head, and his breath hitches when he saw a warm smile on those cruel, thin lips. He feels the tears niggling at his eyes; Vladimir never shown such smiles at him, his heart and mind imprinted such a smile on his memory; a treasure that he dearly covets. 

The usual iciness in the gaze has been melted by fondness as it looks at him sweetly; turning it into calm blue-green pools. His heart soar and swelled, and tears fell from his eyes as his emotions overwhelmed him, and a warm, rough thumb brushed them away; the president leaned down and claimed his lips. The man's tongue urges him to open his mouth, and he did so gladly; their tongues intertwined in a slow and heartfelt dance that curls up his toes and makes his body tingle pleasantly. His hand desperately clings into Vladimir Vladimirovich, hoping that this moment lasts for an eternity.

 _Knocks on his office door brought him back to reality.  
_ _He smiles wanly at his foolishness.  
_ _His mind partook on its favourite pastime: wishful thinking._

_The rules of the imperial harem are simple, as soon as you caught the emperor's gaze; you must hasten to have him in your bed and give him a son. By doing so, will cement your status above all of the concubines._

How foolish of him to think of such an analogy, but it is not too far off from reality. Russia today is akin to a modern medieval tsardom, the president is surrounded by scheming officials to curry favours. Each one wanted to gain more influence on Vladimir, and they will do everything to eradicate everyone on their way. He's a casualty of such a war for power, isn't it? 

Dmitry sighed for the nth time of his life, as he put down the tabloid. It's fascinating that emotions could trigger a physical response: the clenching of jaws and tensing of muscles in anger, the crushing weight in your chest and tears in sadness and betrayal, and lastly the soft exhalation of breath prompted by irritation or disappointment. He often exhibits sighing that it became a part of his gestures, but who would not sigh at the difficulties of life? We sang hymns to exalt our sufferings, that it is a test of strength and faith. 

_Suffering should not be romanticised._

The prime minister has let his thoughts go off in a tangent, and he brought it back to the headline that glared at him. A month after the president's mysterious two-week disappearance, rumours flooded throughout the Russian internet; even the Western media picked up the news: Alina Maratovna Kabaeva, Vladimir's supposed mistress, has given birth to a healthy baby boy in a private clinic in Switzerland. 

_Is he jealous of her for that?_

No, certainly not. Dmitry knows that he should not be jealous and troubled by certain biological faculties that he does not possess. Perhaps, he's envious of her for having what he cannot have. Dmitry saw it in the president's eyes after his return from Switzerland. The cold blue eyes are sparkling in happiness. He does wish that he's the source of Vladimir's joy, but it will only remain as a dream; a wish that will never come into fruition. 

He prays that her heart is not as fragile, not as soft. Vladimir is not kind nor understanding, and the prime minister hopes that Kabaeva can withstand the callousness. Is his soul that vile that it does not deserve happiness? Yes. He only inflicts pain to the people around him because of his foolish love. Millions are suffering as he retains his subservient role to remain at his beloved's side, an utter betrayal of his ideals. He dreamt of change, and yet, he only led his country towards stagnation. 

_For a despicable man such as him, deprivation of happiness is not just punishment._

_The president will not invite him on his own volition._

Unease fills into his heart; it keeps thudding on his chest as harshly as a war drum that warns of an incoming invasion. Dmitry fiddles with the Sambro tournament programme on his hand to distract himself from such feelings, it is somewhat surprising to receive a call from Vladimir's office, inviting him for a weekend getaway. The people are speculating if there is a rift between the president and his prime minister. Their press office arranged this sojourn to assuage the citizen's speculations. 

However, his senses are telling him that this will not be a pure PR get together; tonight will be the beginning of an end. Dmitry boxed such emotions and thoughts, placing them on the back of his mind. It ran rampant as he tentatively glances at Vladimir, an amused smile flits through his lips as he notices that the president is engrossed in watching the bout. He took a break in drinking his medicine, and the usual stillness that numbness provides is gone. 

_He wants to feel his emotions in Vladimir's presence._

He listlessly watches the match in front of him, the tanned and muscled appendages of the fighters tangling and flinging at one another; a violent dance for glory. Dmitry is never fond of such a sport, never understood the rationale behind it. The night passes by in a whirlwind, one moment he's pondering about the popularity of contact sports and then he finds himself going up to the ring with the president to congratulate the winners of the tournament; shaking their hands and handing out belts and certificates. 

The flashes of the cameras never ceased as Vladimir, and he went out of the venue, the photographers' continued to catch every moment between them. They shook hands in farewell, but the icy blue eyes gave out a silent command for him to stay. Dmitry followed the order, as usual, and his anxiety is tantamount as he waits for the journalists to disperse. He's berating himself, why is he here? Why won't his feet move away?

A rough, warm hand interrupted his thoughts as it encased his wrist. "Come with me." the president calmly said as he pulled him along towards his vehicle. 

His feet remain planted on where he stood as he watched Vladimir enter the car. A war brewed between the rational mind that tells him that spending a night with the president will worsen his debilitating chest pains and his heart that yearns for the president's company. He stared despondently at the man that holds his heart as he dwells on his indecision, and an eyebrow raised at him. Letting out a small exhale of frustration as his hesitant feet moved and went inside the president's car. The door slams behind him; he can no longer turn back.

Dmitry looked vacantly out of his window, the scenery passing by in a blur as the car sped to Bocharov Ruchei. His fingers lightly tapped the armrest as his thoughts consumed him, unintentionally blocking out the president's queries about state matters. His heart continues its painful thuds, the roots inside of his lungs expands further as his mind whispers his role for tonight: _a bed warmer_. He lightly coughed as he dispelled the fuzzy sensation creeping on his throat. Of course, Kabaeva has been decommissioned for the meantime since she gave birth a few months ago. Understandably, the president would seek out someone to provide him company. 

"Dmitry Anatolyevich!" 

Vladimir's impatient voice brought him back to reality and gave the man an apologetic smile. He hears the screeching halt of the tires as the limousine pulls over to the drive away of the summer residence. A guard opened the door of the car, and he stepped down of the vehicle dejectedly. The president's staff greeted them, and Vladimir sharply ordered them not to disturb them. His leaden feet scaled up the stairs, trying to keep up with the president's hurried steps. 

Guilt and self-hatred are fetters that impeded his steps towards the president's bedroom. A strangled cry wanted to escape from Dmitry's lips, as the cold embrace of despair cloaked his battered soul. He trudges on despite the unbearable burden of his wishes weighed heavily on his heart. Despite the nature of the president's invitation, it allows him to fulfil his desires; it is easier this way to have his Volodya on his arms once again and to express the words that his heart longs to say silently. 

A sense of nostalgia hits him as he enters the room, where they both shed their pretentiousness. Dmitry dully smiled at the thought, no, he's the only one that partakes in such an act; Vladimir keeps up the game in his carnal activities. The air in the room is suffocating, rendering his lungs useless as he struggles to breathe as his misery clings to him eagerly. He slightly jumps as he hears the door closing loudly behind him. 

The president's warm, calloused hands settled on his shoulder and felt those thin, chapped lips pepper, soft frantic kisses on his nape. "You've been absent-minded today, Dima." 

"Sorry, Vladimir Vladimirovich," he whispered and heard the man tutting in disapproval at his formality. The hands slid through his chest and started to unbutton his shirt. 

"You can drop the formalities." hot breath fans over his neck as Vladimir planted open-mouthed kisses on it. His shirt removed from him, and he trembles as the frigid air hit his skin. 

"As you wish, V-Volodya." the diminutive left a bittersweet taste on his mouth, he tries to savour the moment for it will be the last time that the nickname will pass his lips. 

Vladimir turned him around and captured his lips in a searing kiss that made his head spin. How long has it been that he felt those lips against his? Dmitry's hands grabbed the president's shirt and hurriedly opened it, his hand fervently mapped out Vladimir's toned chest. He felt him bristling as his fingers brushed and glided over the flat stomach, he committed such a reaction and Vladimir's body to his memories. With their lips still interlocked, the president walked him back into the bed and met the smooth, silk bed sheets. Vladimir broke off the kiss and straddled him, his chest steadily rising and falling as he took in much-needed air. 

Vladimir laid frantic kisses on his neck and chest, and Dmitry let out a sigh of contentment. Tonight, he can pretend that the president is his; he knew that such delusion would maim his heart further, but the prime minister wanted this to be a memory that he will take to his grave. Dmitry reached up and encased the president on his arms, pulling the man down for a kiss once again. Tears niggled at the corner of his eyes as he poured every emotion and passion for Vladimir at the kiss, but then he knew that such a simple act could not capture the expanse of it. The prime minister deepened it further, hoping that the president can feel every ounce of his longing and the emotions that ravage his soul. 

Their tongues met and engaged in a dance that took his very breath away. Pads of a rough thumb landed on his nipples and swiped roughly; he moaned into the kiss as waves of pleasure rocked through his body. Vladimir's hands deftly unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned and unzipped his jeans and he parted from the kiss to slide off the restricting fabric, leaving him in his underwear. Dmitry stares at the cream coloured ceiling, a few tears escaping his eyes, as lips placed kisses on his inner thighs. 

"You're quite eager tonight, Dima," Vladimir mutters as a smirk appears on the thin lips. He gave his beloved a coy smile as he sat up to rid the man of his clothing. He pulls down the man's pants which Vladimir impatiently kicks off, a pang of amusement went through his mind as his eyes saw Vladimir's member jutting in the cold air. 

"I merely longed for your touch, Volodya," he whispered against the man's neck before giving it a reverent kiss. His lips trail downwards devotedly, licking and kissing every expanse of skin that he sees. Dmitry grasped the president's cock and stroked him slowly, a surge of happiness enveloped him as he saw the icy, blue eyes closed in pleasure, as he elicited a groan from those thin lips. 

Dmitry bent down and placed a worshipful kiss on the cock's tip. His tongue shyly peeked out of his lips and gave the proud member a tentative lick. Vladimir's shudder and the fingers grasping through his hair spurned him on; he gave it a few sensual licks before engulfing it on his mouth. He bobbed his head enthusiastically, as he heard the president babble sweet-nothings at him and his quickened breaths. Dmitry felt it twitch against his tongue and a hand harshly gripping his hair which stilled him. 

"Enough," Vladimir growled out, and he pushed back down on the bed. Lust made the icy blue eyes glint even further, as the president removed his remaining clothing, spread his legs and peeked at his twitching hole as calloused fingertips rub against it and he cannot help but moan at the sensation. 

"Volodya, please, I want you in me," he begged wantonly, and a finger was thrust violently in him, and another followed. The fingers reached in and stretched him quickly; emptiness descended on him as they left. It is temporary as Vladimir's cock fills him to the brim.

He gasped at the overwhelming sense of completeness washed over him if only such moments last forever. Dmitry stared at those icy blue eyes which always inspires awe and despair in him, oh, what will he not give to have that gaze solely on him. A hand reached out, and he could feel the calloused palms against his soft ones as the president laced their fingers together, as another slid down to grab his aching cock and rubbed it sweetly. The prime minister hooked his legs on Vladimir's waist to press him closer as his walls eagerly cling into the cock that glides and throbs inside of him. 

_Please hear my prayer.  
_ _Free me from this torment._

"You're so tight, Dima." the president's voice is husky as he continues to pound into him. 

A thrill of pleasure ran down his spine as Vladimir hit his sweet spot, the man feverishly kissed and nipped him all over. Dmitry wants to shout at his beloved to bite him harshly, to make him his. He kept such desires on his heart, for he can never be his. Such a mark will fade away; time will heal such a wound on his skin, rendering it insignificant. Vladimir's warm, velvety tongue laved at and engulfed his nipple. Waves after waves of need ran through him; he can feel himself getting close as his body succumbs to the sensations. 

"I am going to come, Volodya." he panted and Vladimir leaned down at his ear. A pleasant prickle runs through his skin as warm breath ghosts over its shell. 

"Then come for me," Vladimir whispers. Dmitry turns his head, and the president captures his lips, swallowing his moans. His back arches as he spilt himself on the president's hand and his body trembles as his release become overwhelming. 

Vladimir thrusts into him frantically, and his contracting hole hungrily squeezes the man's cock and accepts each lunge. The sound of their skin slapping to one another permeates through the air, Dmitry's lungs burned as his, and the president's tongue interlocked into an erotic battle which no one yields. Dmitry felt the taut body above him, and a hand tightly holding into his as the president's warm seed spilt inside of him. Vladimir frees him from the kiss to emit a low groan of pleasure; he's released from the hold as the president collapses on his side. 

Without a word, the president turned his back on him; Dmitry looked numbly at the rapid rise and fall of Vladimir's shoulders. He tried to flex his right hand, wincing slightly as its sore muscle protested, and suddenly, an unbearable pain rose through his lungs, constricting his breathing. Dmitry quietly snuck out of bed, lightening his steps as not to disturb the president from his slumber. He hurriedly gathered his clothes; a metallic taste crept into his throat as the petals graze his oesophagus. 

He briskly walked into the bathroom and slammed the door gently. Dmitry collapsed on his knees as a great burning, stabbing sensation spread through his chest. A sudden wave of nausea hits him as he struggles to crawl towards the toilet bowl, a coughing fit wracks through his body as he hunches over. Cold sweat beads on his forehead as Dmitry expels the blood and flowers continuously and watches in morbid fascination as his blood stained the pristine waters at the same time, full-grown red spider lilies floated serenely on the surface. His mind wonders how many miserable minutes spent hunched over the cold porcelain bowl as he waits for his coughing to ebb. 

His clammy and weak hand grabbed his jeans lying beside him and fumbled through the pocket, letting out a sigh of relief as it pulled out a vial of his medicine. Dmitry clumsily opens it up and drinks the cloying bittersweet liquid; he frowns in disgust as it melds with the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. He feebly swiped at the handle to flush down the sign of his illness and gazes in morbid fascination as his blood, and red spider lilies swirled around the pristine porcelain before descending into the watery depths. The prime minister wobbled as he stood up and made a beeline to the shower for a quick rinse, to rid the smell of blood and sex from his body. 

As he let the warm water batter his aching and tired body, he wonders how many years cut off from his diminishing lifespan because of his impulsive act. His prognosis is turning for the worse, the longer he spends on his government job; his life continues to shorten. Dmitry is aware of the consequences of his stubbornness to remain on Vladimir's side, but he wholly accepts it. He does not need saving; he pushes his thoughts on the back of his mind as he turns off the shower. 

The prime minister stared sullenly at his reflection as he dresses himself up, his sallow, pale skin is out for the world to see. He's been wearing make-up for the past four years to mimic a healthy glow. Closing the last button of his shirt, he prays to the heavens that the president won't rouse in his slumber. Dmitry snuck back into the bedroom, and his breath hitching at the image in front of him, Vladimir's body is bathed by the gentle moonlight making the milky skin glisten. 

Dmitry silently went to the bedside to marvel at his beloved's gentle face, an amused smile spreading on his lips as he gazed on the smooth forehead. Our actions in slumber are beyond our control and this what he'll miss the most, seeing Vladimir's vulnerability. The tightly knit brows on that stern face seemingly disappear. The prime minister's hesitant fingers brushed the smooth forehead and gently traced the upturned nose and the thin lips, something that he'll remember.

Life and love are transient as fate blinks her ancient eyes; however; she never really misses it for such things are cyclical. The throes of pleasure and suffering of humanity is an endless play that she spectates on her vast theatre, numerous actors providing her with their interpretations of strife and triumphs. Tears fell to his cheeks and silently choking back a sob, Dmitry bent down and chastely kissed his beloved's forehead in farewell. 

A few of his tears landed on the president's forehead, and as he parted his lips from it, he mouthed the words that he dearly wanted to utter out loud. Dmitry straightened up and took a deep breath to dispel the weight on his chest that suffocates him. His resolve to leave is chipping away every minute he spends on the room, and he forces himself to walk to the door. Casting a last look at Vladimir, he calmed his heart that wanted to spend the night lying beside his beloved. 

"Good night, Volodya." 

_He opened the door softly and went out of the president's room._

_He was known as the master of self-effacement._

As they stroll towards the Red Square for the Moscow Day celebration, a group of woman dress in bridal gowns are conveniently taking a photoshoot on their path. It's another PR stunt in the making as Vladimir leaned to the side and expressed his congratulations to the "blushing brides". He gave a short wave towards them and veered away as they started to flock Vladimir for a selfie. Of course, the president is game for any activities that will showcase that he's desirable and virile at his age. 

Apathetically, he surveys the scene before him as his lips curved into a wry smile. It is laughable to sell him off as a sex symbol; he's not suitable to take up such a role for a state that yearns to replenish its population for he only sired a son. Dmitry faintly remembers that his PR team tried to paint him in the same light, panties with his portrait along with fertility slogans emerged in the market, a pop song about some of his vague qualities and then the worst of them all: the Medvedev Girls. Their stripping stunt to support his anti-beer drive is quite puzzling with their horrible messaging. His shoulders shook as he stifles his laughter when he remembers the delight on Sveta's face and how she cackled at his face for an hour when he told her the bizarre scenario. 

None of the brides approached him, and he's quite thankful for that. He's a laughing stock compared to the macho image that his beloved presents. Dmitry paid no mind in such trivial matters; he's quite used to this; his presence is unwanted by the other courtiers. The siege against him never ceased; they are obsessed with ousting him from his position. The reason why he's still here is that Vladimir needs his favoured pawn. 

He did as what he's told without objections, for his beloved's sake. Dmitry has committed a lot of sins to please Vladimir, and he'll gladly go to the pits of hell for him. The prime minister will not absolve himself from his crimes; he is perfectly aware that his love did more harm than good and is willing to pay the price. His and Vladimir's fate are intertwined, may it be through an invisible string weaved by the heavens or by the same skeleton that lurks in their closet. 

His musings came to an end as Vladimir bids goodbye to the models. A brief silence descended between them, and they can no longer resume the small talk that they were having before. Ever since their last night, an awkwardness lingers; their conversations are strained and done out of politeness. He parts his lips to speak, but Vladimir turned his attention to Sergei Semyonovich, inquiring about today's festivities. 

_He bitterly closes his lips in defeat.  
  
_

_A severed string.  
_ _A desperate cry._

Dmitry's fitful sleep was disturbed by the stream of blood and flowers that eagerly came out of his mouth. It continuously poured down, staining his bed and clothes. He raises a hand to stem the flow but faltered as he saw the broken red thread tied tightly on his ring finger. Dread made his stomach turn, and an awful, numbing cold settled on its depth. 

When his violent coughing subsides, Dmitry weakly reaches for his phone and calls his physician. The line rang twice, and a sharp pain went through his head as he hears her boisterous voice. 

"Good morning to my favourite patient! What can I do for you, Dima?" 

"P-please, not so loud," he whispers hoarsely as he wearily breathes. "Ca-can y-you d-drop b-by, now?" 

"Be right there," she said sharply, and Dmitry lets out a pained sigh as she finally understood the severity of his situation. 

Dmitry struggled to get out of his bed and exhaustedly tugs off the bloodstained bedsheet. He's alone in his apartment because he forced Sveta to catch up and meet with her childhood friends and Slava offered to accompany him today, but he turned it down. The prime minister might be imposing himself and that it is suffocating to have them continually hovering over him. He's not that invalid because he can do some of the basic things for himself, albeit, accompanied by laboured breathing. 

_He thrives in solitude._

Listlessness consumes him, and his unpleasant thoughts often visit him in his desolation. Dmitry often distracts himself by reading novels, yoga or actively listening to his vinyl records to keep them at bay. He went on to do what he usually does and contemplates whether or not to remove the red string tied tightly on his finger. The prime minister decided that his physician should take a look at it before he does anything with it. 

A knock on his apartment door disturbs him, and Dmitry weakly opened it to let Natsya in. "You look too pale, Dima. Did you have an-" she stops at her rambling as she spotted the faded, broken red string adorning his ring finger. 

She slammed the door hurriedly and dragged him back to his room. Natsya sat him down on the bed and started taking x-rays of his lungs; she tuts and sadly sighs as she looks at the images. She took out her stethoscope and started listening to his breathing. The doctor shook her head as she removed the stethoscope from his chest. 

"What's the matter?" he asks as he notices the sadness glimmering on the bottle green orbs. 

"You should call in sick, Dima. It turned for the worst today since you already have the severance dream." Natsya said as she sat down beside him and grabbed his left hand, staring at the broken string tied tightly on his finger. 

"I already did. How many years do I have left?" Dmitry asks as his clammy hand grasped hers for comfort. 

"Give or take two to three years. Your attacks will be frequent, and I need you to give me a few days to concoct another variant of your medicine. Where are Slava and Sveta? You shouldn't be on your own." Natsya released his hand and stood up. 

"I needed a break from their overbearing care. Have you eaten? I cooked some pumpkin soup." 

"I'll have some," she says as she lends him a hand in rising from his bed. Dmitry leads her to the kitchen, but Natsya told him off for moving around and planted him on one of the chairs and served him the soup that he cooked. 

She sat down beside him, and they eat in comfortable silence. Today is supposed to be his meeting with Vladimir along with his cabinet, and he felt guilty for leaving them behind. Dmitry decided to open his television and tune in to the meeting to be with them in spirit. Vladimir sat down, imperiously at his chair, commanded his colleagues to do so and started conversing with the health minister. 

_"The flu epidemic in Russia seems to be decreasing, though it remains serious. We can't save Dmitry Anatolyevich."_

Dmitry's hand started to shake, and he places his spoon down to his bowl as his appetite vanished. Natsya gave him a concerned look as he pushes his bowl away. A bitter smile spreading on his lips, the president has decided to let him go. Vladimir uses medical terminology as an allegory of someone's political, and this is not the first time that he has made such insinuations.

"Your time in politics is up too, isn't it?" she asks him quietly, and he let out a defeated sigh. 

"Yes," he replied flatly as his hands anxiously fiddle with the table cloth.

Dmitry knew that he could not deter Vladimir from his decision, such pronouncement is telling the ones that wish him gone that he's fair game. His mind presented him with the desperate, icy blue eyes and the trembling hands that futilely grasped at his disappearing form. The dull, sapphire gaze went to the broken red thread tied snugly on his finger as his heart yearns for Vladimir to do the same thing to him in reality. 

_Frustrated hands are grasping into thin air.  
_ _Misery fills the icy blue gaze._

_Why is he here?_

He looked numbly at the screen, the voting for his reappointment as the prime minister has ended. The screen in front of him flashes the result, and a loud round of applause surrounded the chamber. Dmitry smiled at the deputies to mask his confusion with gratitude as Vyacheslav Viktorovich announced the result: 374 in favour and 56 against. He remains as the prime minister and considered as the longest-serving one in recent history. 

The prime minister's smile hastily left his face; he's been praying and hoping that there will be a majority of deputies that will vote against his appointment. His political fortune foretold last year when Vladimir told his deputies that he's beyond saving, but despite such a bleak assessment, he received a majority of the vote. His weariness is bone-deep as he slumped into his seat when the condemning eyes of the other MPs fixed on him. He averted his gaze, and his eyes led him to Vladimir's direction; a satisfied smile flits on the thin lips. 

The president's reaction is telling, as he sets plans in motion, and as usual, he's a pawn unwillingly dragged in the midst of it. Vladimir uses him as he sees fit, from providing carnal pleasures to reserving the highest government position. He wonders if his role in the president's plan would be the one that he does best: a seat holder. Looking for his suitable replacement is not an easy feat; they must be capable and could garner Vladimir's and the siloviki's approval. 

"Dmitry Anatolyevich, you may address the assembly." Vyacheslav Viktorovich's voice halted his thoughts. 

He stood up from his seat and went to the podium; Dmitry gave a small smile to the deputies as he places his iPad down. "Dear colleagues..." 

_He'll do his final role well._

_Life is fleeting_

Yet, here he is, wasting the few months of his life curled up into a corner. Dmitry lets the unforgiving raindrops batter his frail body, as he wills the cold to penetrate his heart. He desperately wanted his heart to freeze, as every beat leaves a painful stab. The loud whistles of the wind mask the sobs and whimpers that spill out of his mouth. He gurgles as another onslaught of hanahaki seized his body; he's starting to choke as the cold, and flowers fill his lungs. 

Dmitry's heart grieves at the unfairness of it all; he merely wished for something so simple. Deceptively simple, but it is something that he can never attain. The heart that he yearns for will forever remain out of reach; he will never know its warmth nor its depths. Woeful begging filled his existence which he spent in vain. 

The sliding doors of the veranda opened, and soft footsteps invaded his self-pity party. He looked up and met umber eyes. An inexplicable emotion flashes through it as it took in his state, Dmitry gave a weak smile to Slava. The presidential aide sat down beside him and enveloped him in a tight embrace; he felt a hand running through his wet hair comfortingly. The prime minister choked back a sob and clung to the man firmly. His presence is a raft that came to his aide, the one that saved him from drowning completely. 

"I am here, Dima. Let it out." Slava whispers soothingly. 

The bellowing thunder hides Dmitry's agonising cries and screams from the skies; his frustrations and self-hatred are washed away by the rain. He can feel his throat tearing as he screams himself hoarse, could taste the blood coating it. His body shook from the cold and the ever-flowing tears that escaped his eyes. There's nothing left of his heart to break; the howling winds have long swept up the powdery dust. 

The rain stops, along with his crying as he collapses bonelessly into the presidential aide's arms. 

"Would he ever love me if I was born a woman, Slava?" he rasped out. 

Slava remained silent and continued to hold him in his embrace. Dmitry knows that he shouldn't trifle with this what-if, but he cannot help it. It's been plaguing his mind as he listlessly trudged on to meet those icy blue eyes, as he shakes that callous hand. He knew that in his beloved's eyes, he's non-existent; a pawn to use to further his political gains. 

_His heart has finally accepted the harsh reality that its wishes are impossible to fulfil_

_January 13, 2020:_

_"Every coming year is as bad as the previous one, and the newest year is bound to be even worse. Instead of celebrating the new year, one should suffer, cry and attempt suicide. Every new year brings you closer to death, makes you poorer, your bald spots larger, and your wife older."_

Anton Chekhov's A Night in the Cemetery succinctly sums up his destiny. Stony silence, hesitant laughter and reluctant applause greeted his foreshadowing. His upcoming resignation is not the only thing that he implies; he has a few days to live, and here he is spending those remaining days performing his last duties to his country. His frail hands nearly dropped his papers, and he gave the crowd an awkward smile to dispel the grim atmosphere. 

Dmitry mechanically dispensed the awards to their recipients; dark thoughts are swimming in his head as he realises that they would all be writing an obituary about him a few days from now. Would these journalists focus on his years as an ineffective and apathetic prime minister or being the pitiful president? Will they deride him for letting them down as they once saw him as an alternative despite his weakness? They did say that such awkwardness is formerly endearing, but now it only made him aloof and out of touch. 

Earlier, he met with his deputies to discuss the issues of safety of their citizens in the Middle East. He can feel the futility resonating from them; the meeting is pointless. The priorities will change once a new prime minister is in place, some of his deputies may or may not be a part of the new government. Try as he might, he cannot instil a typical atmosphere; everyone knows that they are running on a limited time. 

He socialised with the journalists for a bit at the reception, a strained smile etched on his face as he dealt with the niceties. Dmitry cannot wait to leave this all behind, to discard his mask and his armour of fake bravado. He'll drag his weary soul and heart away from this treacherous world, grief claws at his chest as he enthusiastically waits for his passing. A thousand words left unspoken, hidden emotions, and empty vows litter his path to emancipation. 

_The whispers of his heart will remain unheard._

_January 14:_

_His direct line to Vladimir Vladimirovich kept ringing._

Dmitry blatantly ignored the call from the president's office as he dutifully writes out a few amendments on his will. He conducted another futile meeting today with Alexander Brechalov, Udmurtia's governor. The outgoing prime minister did not miss the governor's pinched face as they droned on about the state of his republic, Dmitry should have left such task to his successor. The governor did not travel in vain; he merely arrived early for the president's address to the federal assembly. 

He sighs in exasperation as he lifted the handset and placed it on the table to block out incoming calls and went back to his task and steadily brushed off his heart's murmurs to answer the call. Complications to his plans arose when he unexpectedly coughed up blood in front of Vladimir, blowing up his cover. He's mildly surprised that the president is persistently seeking him out, but he's adamant not to let Vladimir interfere with his imminent demise. His Volodya should not concern himself with insignificant matters. 

_Fate is cruel; she does not want him to pass quietly._

The diary's white pages filled with painful memories and sentiments; it is the one that brought solace to him. Writing lessens the weariness on his heart, however; the problems that it brings exacerbates the relief that it caused. Dmitry planned to bequeath it to his son as a way to tell him the truth once Sveta deemed that he's ready, but his diary is currently in the president's possession. Vladimir might use the information that he has written to manipulate him, and he knew that his beloved would not relinquish his journal. 

His iPhone started ringing; he took it out of his pocket and stared at the name. Dmitry knew that Vladimir's press secretary, Dmitry Sergeyevich, will only call him on the president's behalf and it will be wise not to accept the call. The prime minister calmly turned off his phone, stood up from his seat and pocketed his will. Paranoia steadily creeps into his mind, and his heart thudded anxiously in his chest that the president might storm the residence to corner him. 

_He no longer has any business in Gorki; it's time to leave._

_January 15:_

_They both ignored the elephant in the room._

Dmitry feigned ignorance to the terse atmosphere between him and Vladimir during their post-annual address to the federal assembly meeting. He hollowly smiled and nodded as Vladimir reiterated the purpose of his resignation; this meeting is also pointless. Dmitry knows what to do, has spent his life pretending, and it will be his last day of doing so. As soon as he steps out of his office, he'll assume the role of a downtrodden man deprived of his job, quite an easy task. 

There's no elephant in the room; it's a ticking time bomb that can blow off any second, as they steadily take no notice of the pressing issue between them. Unspoken words drifted into the air and demanded to be said out loud; both of them are not succumbing to its call. Relief washes over Dmitry as his secretary announced through the intercom that his vice premiers and the ministers have arrived in the meeting room. He weakly stood up from his seat and went straight ahead to the open doors; the numerous flashes of lights and the sounds of cameras on burst mode greeted him. 

Dmitry stood at the door and glanced at Vladimir who remained on his seat, and he froze as he met those icy blue eyes. The usual frigid walls barring everyone from seeing the emotions brimming within are down as it beseeches him to address the bomb that will tear their souls. He insists on disregarding his heart's screams, on heeding its tugs towards his salvation. Sensing that he'll stand his ground, Vladimir calmly strode past him, but he felt his simmering indignation underneath. 

The outgoing prime minister followed the president, but he stopped in his track when Vladimir stood still at the lesser meeting room. His beloved is clutching one of the chair's back tightly, absentmindedly staring up ahead. Dmitry stops and lets his eyes roam around, a small smile playing on his lips. He took a breath and spoke to try and dispel the suffocating silence that hangs between them. 

"It's tiring to be in this room; this is where I was briefed with most of the country's problems." 

There are cracks underneath the icy blue; a glacier wanting to break forth as Vladimir glared daggers at him for his saucy remark. Dmitry shrugged and strode on ahead; his beloved fell in step beside him. There's no need to show synchrony between them; their image of unity has long been broken. Tonight, their paths will diverge from one another: he can no longer follow his beloved's trail that is illuminated by riches, power and love. A single plank, darkened bridge awaits him and at its end is Death who longs to envelop him in his bony embrace. 

_He has nothing to leave behind for his Volodya._

The room hushed as he and Vladimir entered the room; the smile on his face is the beacon of light in the darkened sea of melancholy. Some of his colleagues sport a dejected expression on their face while some are merely waiting for his announcement. The lifespan of a government and its prime minister lies on the president's hand. Others will remain, and the other half fades, this is the providence of the man sent by God to protect Russia. 

_They all settled down to their seats: the finale of Putin and the Bear show has begun._

"Good Afternoon, colleagues." 

Vladimir glanced briefly at him before continuing with his spiel. 

_"Dmitry Anatolyevich and I have discussed in detail the questions that I raised in the Address to the Federal Assembly. As you see, there are many issues, and to complete what we planned in the past and what has been offered to our society today, we must certainly do a lot, in part, to properly organise our work."_

Vladimir has given him the floor, a soft exhale escapes his lips, and he carefully wove a downtrodden expression on his face. Dmitry cleared his throat and began to speak in a monotonous tone. He must provide an impeccable final performance. 

_"Vladimir Vladimirovich, colleagues. We have all listened to the Presidential Address. As President, Vladimir Vladimirovich mapped out the top priorities of our work in the country this year and formulated a whole package of fundamental amendments to the Constitution of the Russian Federation."_

An unfair judge passing a warped judgement, his colleagues are waiting with bated breath at his next lines. It will chart out their paths and whether or not the doors of power will remain open for them. This sacking is inevitable, and it is horrendous that he has to extinguish their flicker of hope. His only wish is that the chosen successor would retain some of his colleagues. 

_"When these amendments are adopted, most likely after the discussion as it was said, they will substantially change not only many articles of the Constitution but also the balance of power – executive, legislative and judicial. It is obvious in this context that as the Government of the Russian Federation, we must allow the president of this country to make all the necessary decisions for this. Under the circumstances, it would be correct for the entire Government of the Russian Federation to resign following Article 117 of the Constitution. I would certainly like to thank all those that took part in the work of the current government. Naturally, subsequent decisions will be made by the president of this country."_

He's heinous for allowing this to happen that he did not fight for his colleagues. Equivalent exchanges are needed for change to happen; it demands a sacrifice. Dmitry would have happily taken the blame all by himself; but the president, their infallible God, required more than what is necessary. At least, a bloodless revolution is preferable than a one sparked by blood. 

_"Dmitry Anatolyevich, colleagues. For my part, I also want to thank you for everything that has been done so far in our joint work. I am satisfied with the results of your work. Of course, not everything was accomplished, but things never work out in full. I hope we will see each other soon, and I will meet with each of you in person. Please go about your duties in full until the new government is formed. Thank you, everyone. We will see each other very soon. Thank you for your work."_

"Thank you." the sense of finality is heavy on his tongue as he bids his ministers farewell. He got up from his seat calmly and buttoned up his suit. Dmitry turned to leave, but a hand extended towards him prevented an abrupt departure. 

He grasped the calloused hand with downcast eyes and never dared to meet the man's gaze. Dmitry gave it a quick shake and tried to let go, but it clings into him tightly. Time stills as they remained in place; he tried jerking his hand out of the vice-like grip, but it is steadfast on its hold. It let go when the last clatter of footsteps left the meeting room. 

"What are you planning to do after politics, Dima?" despite the tranquillity in his voice, he could pick up the resentment and anger in its clipped tones. 

"I plan on honing more of my photography skills or go back to teaching. Who knows? There are a lot of options for a former prime minister and president." he replies smoothly. 

The lines on the president's face deepened even further at his lies; he's still acting as though Vladimir's still clueless about his eventual demise. It would have been a perfect life after politics, unbridled by power and love. He is going back to his beloved St Petersburg, teaching Roman and Civil Law in his alma mater while practising photography on the side. However, the chains of Death tightened on his throat, reminding him that he cannot partake in such fantasy. 

The silence is cloying, rendering him breathless as he continues to stare on the icy pools. Dmitry turns and starts heading back to his office, quickening his footsteps to get away from such attention. Shouldn't he be rejoicing? He desires such attention from Vladimir, but he's ready to bury a lifetime of suffering behind. His heart should not sway to what-if, presenting itself in front of him. 

The former prime minister faced his beloved one last time and offered his hand for a final handshake. "I hope everything goes well for you, Vladimir Vladimirovich." 

Vladimir did not grasp the offered hand and remained silent at his words. His hand sadly went back to his side and offered his brightest smile instead to the president. He gazed at the man's face, and his heart stirs at the affront that colours the usually emotionless façade. Dmitry continues to wait for the man to bid him farewell, but the clock continues to tick; they remained fixated on one another's faces. 

Dmitry cracked first, and his hand firmly grabbed the handle of his office door, and he threw himself inside to escape the tension-filled silence. His eyes wandered into the empty office; it is quite disconcerting to see it devoid of his personal effects. His Apple watch started ringing, and he receives the call from the presidential aide. He swallowed hard and cleared his throat to dispel the lump that crept up. 

"Dima, you can come down or do I have to drag you out of your office?" the sarcastic voice drawled out and he snickers lightly at the man's impatience as he sat down on his chair running his hand on the bloodstains that he left behind on the grey desk.

"I told you to give me a few minutes to say goodbye to my cage, Slav-." a grin spreads on his lips as he heard his office door open and he rotates his chair to meet his friend. His heart froze, and the smile fell in an instant, he quietly took a deep breath and composed himself. "What can I do for you, Vladimir Vladimirovich?" 

The man approaches him, and there's almost a feral glint into the man's eyes as he cages him on his chair. A flurry of emotions passes through that gaze, some of which he cannot fathom. A deck of cards that ran through a seasoned magician's nimble fingers, the disappointment flits through rage, and the gaze turned icier. He commands his feet to move, to stand up but that hypnotic orbs arrest him while his heart moved erratically on his chest. 

"I will not allow it." the man snarls, and he flinches at his tone. "I simply cannot allow you to leave."

"Leave? I will not leave, you told me that I have to heed your calls when you need me," he retorts amicably, and the angry, cold eyes turned menacing. 

"Do not be coy with me. You cannot die without my permission."

"I wasn't aware that I needed the state's approval for matters that concerned my health. Is there anything that I can help you with?" he calmly said as Dmitry stood up from his seat and tried to stride past the president, but Vladimir angrily slams him back into it.

"Your matters concern me. How dare you conceal your illness from me?" A cold hand grasped his shirt and dragged him closer to Vladimir; he could feel the man's heaving chest; when was the last time that he's been this close to his beloved?

Dmitry's hand holds the president's wrist and futilely wrenching himself out of Vladimir's grip. Slava's silence on the other end of the line unnerves him, but he hopes that his friend would come to his aid. His breaths grew rapid as the president cages him into his chair. As every second tick, he can feel the medicine wearing off feeling the blood and flowers pooling at his lungs. 

"Vladimir Vladimirovich, you do not have a say to my personal decisions. My life is not within your purview, I will live and dies as I wish." he grits out, and he tries to get away from him once again. However, he fell back in shock as Vladimir hurls documents at his face. 

"You've forgotten that I have every means to tie you to me." the Vladimir whispers coldly and a demented chuckle escapes his pale lips. 

"Are you threatening me that you'll have it published and expose me? I no longer care about such things." Dmitry pushes Vladimir away and starts heading towards the door, but a rough hand held his wrist tightly.

A strange flash went into the president's eyes as desperation filled it. Dmitry kept tugging his arm back, but the grip on his wrist tightened further. Tears spilt out of his eyes as fate's cruelty intensified when Vladimir brought him closer to him as his other arm wrapped itself gently on his waist. The soft, thin lips landed lightly on his, and Dmitry knew that his powdered heart couldn't break further. 

_He knew that this is an illusion._

Dmitry felt Vladimir's raw emotions on the kiss and heard the words that he can never say. The desperation presents itself on the arms that tightened his hold on him, a silent plea for him to stay and not to scatter to the ethers. The limpid tears that fell from the icy blue eyes anointed with long-held adoration and regret that he has disregarded the calls of his heart. Vladimir deepens the kiss further as he bares his soul to him, entrancing him to look at the heart whose walls were lowered for him. 

_No, he cannot fall.  
_ _He cannot let himself be carried away by his emotions.  
_ _He doesn't want to live through that loneliness once again_.

His eyes widened as his heart leapt painfully in his chest, as the roots and flower gradually recede from his lungs. His heart has accepted such an act as a reciprocation of his love. Dmitry pushes the man away from him with such force, and the flowers that were miraculously vanishing came back at an alarming rate. His blood and red spider lilies spilt out of his mouth as he rejected the confession.

Vladimir approached him, and with his remaining strength, he slapped him as hard as he could. A sob escaped his lips at Vladimir's audacity to give him hope, for trying to dismantle the fact that he has long accepted. 

"A-are you having fun? How dare you play with my emotions! I am sick and tired of you." he panted out as his tears blurred his vision. Dmitry can faintly see Vladimir whose head is still turned to the side as though he has not recovered from the shock that his toy would have the courage to slap him. 

Dmitry staggers to the door as violent coughs wracked his body. The sea of blood and flowers inside of him is suffocating, drowning him. He desperately grabs the door handle as he collapsed on his knees, crying pitifully as his world spins around him. 

"Dima, stay with me." Vladimir tilted his face, and he saw the panicked filled icy blue eyes. A warm, firm thumb brushes his tears away. 

"You don't have to lie to me, Volodya. You don't love me; you never did" he whispered weakly and gave the man a bloodied mocking smile before his body succumbs to the darkness.

 _Warm hands futilely fought with Death's unyielding grip.  
_ _Morose occupies the icy, blue gaze._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think!  
> Sorry, it took a long time but I will try my best to update as frequently as possible as I try to procrastinate with my scriptwriting and graduate school duties.


	4. Chapter III: Flavour of Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!  
> This is half of the 3rd chapter and I am posting it as a preview.   
> Please let me know what you think.   
> Will try to finish the other half by next week :D
> 
> Inspiration for this chapter is I Swear by Yuki Kajiura  
> YT: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0wjEKge1la8

_If it were merely a pain, it would melt in limpid tears, reflecting its inmost secret without a word._ _  
__But it is love, my beloved._ _  
__Its pleasure and pain are boundless, and endless its wants and wealth._ _  
__It is as near to you as your life, but you can never wholly know it._

- _ **The Gardener [Sonnet 28] by Rabindranath Tagore**_

_I salute my sovereign, Tsar Peter Alexeyevich._

_May this letter find you in good health._

_This humble servant is delighted that you have decided to visit. My affliction seems to have sparked your interest. Our dutiful son duly informed me that the sovereign had taken an interest in medicine. It will be my pleasure to add to your knowledge._

_My Lord, this affliction that possesses me is not in the old records. Your servant cannot recall when it started; however, it seems that as this servant yearns for you, the flower blooms steadily on my heart. When such yearnings became unbearable, the flowers along with mine blood spilt out of thy servant's mouth. This servant hopes that thy sovereign can put an end to this affliction._

_I am eternally bowing low before you._

_Dunka._

_The Tandemocracy has come to an end._

The president should be flawless; he needs to retain a stable image to rule. As the sacrificial lamb, his blood should be enough to appease the anger of the citizens. His resignation will be advantageous for Vladimir, for it signals a new start, to breathe life into their decaying political system. His successor is an able technocrat that will enable Vladimir to reach his goal, and that puts his heart at ease. 

_A necessary sacrifice._

He lightly chuckles as he took a sip of wine, the comforting, sweet liquid could no longer stave off the acrid, cloying taste of sorrow in his mouth. It's a welcome change, accustomed to the metallic tang of his blood; the bittersweet taste reminds him that life offers a variety of flavour. Sorrow is ever-present, abiding; a spectre that clings to him. He rarely tasted happiness; it is as fleeting as the sand that passes through your fingertips; the momentary sweetness of one's favourite candy. 

He settled his glass down and stared forlornly at the stars; they twinkled comfortingly at him, inviting him to stare and temporarily forget the vicissitudes of his fate. The master breaks the chains from the circus bear, beaten and bruised after it happily accepted the stones meant for him. The bear paws pathetically into the ground as it crawls, wanting to serve its owner one last time. 

_It's been a tiring day._

He's been with the president throughout the day without a reprieve from the suffocating presence. The occasional bathroom breaks to expel the flowers has been torturous, such is his fate. Various events needed the attendance of the president and prime minister. He is reaping the consequences of such proximity, but his heart never harbours regrets, even considers it a great honour to spend his existence wisely. 

All this pretentiousness, he can only drop his armour in solitude. It's getting more burdensome to don as the days' wither, as his clock steadily ticks. The quiet apartment is privy as he strips it off from him; it bore witness to his heart's weakness and the awful deterioration of his body. Deceit drains every inch of his nerves, as it is contrary to his earnest nature, he cultivated that trait out of necessity. Purely out of survival and concealing his illness from the prying eyes of the state, he willingly turned himself into a shadow of his former self. 

"That's enough." a soft voice said behind him. He turned his head and met doleful cornflower blue eyes. 

"Sveta." he breathed out, she gently took the glass from the table and emptied its contents by throwing the rest of the wine into the balcony. 

"What brought on this recklessness?" she sat beside him, placing a comforting hand on top of his. 

He chuckled lightly to mask the despair threatening to burst forth. "Vladimir Vladimirovich commanded me to resign next month to give way for a political shake-up." 

"About time." 

The crisp air whistles and soft flurries of snow cascades upon them; Dmitry serenely smiled as he felt it touch his skin, this will do. He's unfortunate that his last winter is Moscow's warmest, depriving him of experiencing its majesty. He rests his head on her shoulder, his unwavering pillar, his light that illuminated his darken path throughout the years. However, despite its radiance, it can never alleviate the darkness that threatens to swallow his soul. 

"He wishes for me to accept another government position, but I opted for retirement. As much as I want to serve him for long, I will not be able to do it." he choked up a sob, as Sveta's hand cards through his hair. 

"Mitya." she sighs, and her other hand clutches him closer. Tears split from his eyes, soaking the sleeve of her dress. "You've done enough for him. As much as your heart craves to be of use to him, it's time for a respite." 

"An eternal one, that's for sure," he said stiffly and heard her soft, half-hearted chuckle at his morbidity. 

The flurries of snow and the gentle breeze became an addition to such a bittersweet moment; the only thing that the heavens can offer for a man who yearns for the cold. A tender embrace to impede the desolation rendering his heart. Cornflower blue eyes stared restlessly at the man before her, 20 years of excruciating helplessness; she cannot ease his pain.

He entrusted her with safeguarding his heart, encased it once again in her warmth. She failed him, but, strife against the matters of the heart is foolish, for it is fickle. Love wanes and changes, lost and regained; a paradox of consistency and inconsistency. 

A cough distracts her from her thoughts, and blood invades her senses. It mingled with the warm tears on her shoulder, dyed her grey dress red, and the metallic tang teases her nose. Svetlana soothes Dmitry's back as she hopes that her caress is enough to alleviate the maelstrom that he suffers within. She stared up at the twinkling stars, to hinder the tears from flowing freely down her cheeks. 

_Would their lives be different if he never met him?_

_A new period in his life has begun._

Dmitry's life is a seamless clockwork; it's always on the dot and has not experienced any disruptions. He'll play for his friends for precisely ten minutes and run back home to do his homework dutifully. At school, he partakes in sports and dabbles with Chemistry experiments. He never tires of his routine; he cherishes it even; he zealously sticks as it makes his school life less complicated. 

He knew that his teachers worry that he's not socialising enough with his peers; they often tell him that he's too attentive and too mature for his age. Sometimes they gently remind him that there's a world beyond books and studying. Reluctantly, he joined this year's winter trip, and his regrets dispelled when their teachers took them to Catherine Palace. Dmitry tremendously enjoyed the palace tour, and the sneak peek of some of the unrestored rooms. 

This brings him to his current predicament, after touring the palace, his teachers decided that the students should frolic on its gardens. He could hear the snow crunching as his classmates ran enthusiastically on the snow-covered field while the others were constructing a fort and making snowballs. Dmitry started to edge away from the impending snowball fight, but he bumped into one of his teachers who nodded at him encouragingly to join the battle. He sat sulkily behind the fort throwing snowballs half-heartedly at the other team. 

"Watch it!" an angry voice shouted at him. 

He's not looking at where he threw the snowball, Dmitry is absentmindedly hurling them to the other side. His heart skipped as he saw the girl in the middle of the battlefield, her cheeks flushed with the cold and her nostrils flaring with anger. She stooped down, and her dainty fingers were scooping up as much snow in her hands, quickly forming it into a ball. He's too dumbstruck to react as the snowball pelted at him landed on his face, feeling the cold and powdery snow. 

Dmitry's hand automatically fetched another snowball and started to barrage the girl with as many snowballs as she could, and she fired back with the same eagerness. She was as light and as soft as the snow beneath their feet; she flits and dodges the snowballs thrown at her. Her hair is akin to spun gold cascades down to her waist and glistened underneath the wintry sun. Her face is as graceful as the snowflakes that fell from the sky, and her eyes as blue as the calmest sea. He stopped throwing snowballs to stare unabashedly at his opponent, she met his gaze and gave him a coy wink before throwing another snowball at him. 

He raises his hand to indicate that he's surrendering from the fight and the brilliant girl approaches him with a massive grin on her face. Dmitry felt that the sun had descended and embedded itself inside this girl who offered him a gentle hand. Hesitantly, he took her hand and shook it gently. 

"Hello, my name's Svetlana Vladimirovna." God, even her voice is as sweet as a bird's chirp. 

"Dmitry Anatolyevich," he replied quietly, and he saw that the girl smiled even more at his meekness.

_From then on, his peaceful routine ended._

_A miracle has happened!_

The teachers rejoiced as Svetlana Vladimirovna managed to distract their dreadful why-asker from his obsessive academic pursuit. However, their heart sighs, poor Dima might not have a chance to win Svetlana Vladimirovna's heart. Painfully smitten but terribly shy and awkward, he's overshadowed by her other suitors. The whole school is a witness on how Dmitry Anatolyevich blossomed as he waddles through his adolescent curiosity; celebrated as Svetlana finally said yes after months of wooing. 

However, the apple of his eyes merely sees him as someone to dote on. Svetlana Vladimirovna is the youngest child in her family, she's tired of the constant doting from her older siblings. She wishes to shower the same attention to someone, and her heart has decided that it will be the meek boy that she met during the winter trip. There's something about him that made her heart swell, made him want to care for him and want him to be her friend.

She appreciates his sweet gestures and his respectful nature, but Svetlana merely thinks of him as a friend, a little brother that she can dote on. After three months of courtship, she accepted his proposal to be his girlfriend out of convenience. She felt at ease enough with him to use Mitya as a deterrent to her other suitors that she cannot stand. They sat on their usual spot on the playground, and as usual, Mitya was terribly focused on his book. She knows that it would be callous of her to tell him the truth during the eve of their vital examinations, but she can no longer stand her lies; he must know the truth. 

She clears her throat to get his attention, and he looks up at her with his bright smile. "What is it, Sveta?" 

"Mitya, I am sorry. I only accepted to be your girlfriend because I do not want the other boys to bother me, and I am comfortable around you. I do not feel the same way, I only see you as a brother. Despite this, I wish for us to remain friends." she said sadly, and her heart wrenched at her cruelty for exploiting Dima's kindness and loneliness. 

The bright eyes dimmed, and without losing a beat, the smile remained in place. Unshed tears are threatening to spill as Svetlana hugged him and kept whispering her apologies. "No, you don't need to apologise. I understand. Of course, I'll still be your friend." 

Guilt grabs at her soul as she slowly let go of him, and they went back to their studies. An uncomfortable silence descended upon them, she felt that she's too brazen to be in his company. She shakily stood up and ran away from him, she did not even look back, but her mind graciously gave her a picture of his tears staining the pages of his book. A heavy feeling crushed her heart, and unbidden tears flowed out of her eyes. 

She heard the teacher's whispering that Mitya's test scores in the final examinations will not be enough for university, but if his parents’ connections suffice he’ll be admitted to the night school. A sinking feeling went to her stomach, she's responsible for throwing him off-kilter. Svetlana knew that Mitya is an average student and that their relationship has always affected him deeply whenever quarrelled.   
  
_She should have waited until the examinations were over to say such things._

When her mother asked her what she wanted as a graduation gift, she asked for a Linguistics textbook. It garnered questions from her mother, who thought that she dreamt of being an economist, but she brushed it off and lied through her teeth that she's interested in learning about languages and its structures. Mitya has told her that he wanted to follow his mother's footsteps of being a linguistics teacher. She doesn't know what to get him, but his solace has always been a good book; however, Svetlana knew that a book will not undo what she has done. It is understandable if he did not forgive her at all. 

Clutching the book on her chest, she began her trek to Bela Kun street and her legs started trembling as she reached No.6. Strengthening her resolve, she went upstairs and walked through the corridor that leads to Medvedev's apartment. Svetlana calmed herself and raised her hand to knock, but the door opened and she’s staring right into the sapphire blue gaze.   
  
“What are you doing here, Svetlana Vladimirovna?” Mitya politely asks her as she clears her throat to try and remove as much of her nervousness as possible.   
  
“Mitya, I came here to apologise.” she presented the book in her hand. “Take this, I hope that it will help you in your further studies.” 

Mitya shakily receives the book, “Sveta, you shouldn’t have. You don’t need to.” 

“But I-I-” she stutters as he gives her a warm smile. 

“Does your offer of friendship still stand? I’ll rather take that.” he extended a hand towards her. “Friends?” 

_She accepted the warm hand with a watery smile._

_The agent's stare unnerves her._

Svetlana sighs as she drinks her chamomile tea, it is supposed to have relaxing properties, but how can she remain calm? In the corner of her eye, she can see a blonde KGB agent with blue eyes, sitting a few tables away staring intently at your companion? Mitya remained oblivious to their predicament as he happily digs into his honey cake, the doe-like eyes stared at her questioningly. She shook her head, her imagination must have been playing tricks at her after all.

She settled her teacup down, a soft gale rustles the trees providing a pleasant ambient noise. This peaceful atmosphere is better than their dingy flats, but such ambience comes with a hefty price. The tea and cakes here cost two months of a student's carefully saved up stipend; Mitya waived off her insistence on sharing the bill, proudly stating that this is his treat. Svetlana cleared her throat, picked up her fork and sliced a piece neatly. 

"Congratulations, by the way. You should have told me that you are graduating next week so I could have prepared a gift for you. Anyway, have you decided what you want to do after?" She took a bite of the cake as she waited for her friend's response.

"I am considering whether I should apply as an investigator in the prosecutor's office or accept the opportunity to pursue further studies, it's budget funded by the university," Mitya mumbled quietly as he forked another piece.

She laughed softly as his tongue childishly swiped at the cream on the corner of his lip. Svetlana grabbed a napkin and wiped it off for him, Mitya gave her a grateful smile. The hair on the back of her neck stands, as she felt a malevolent gaze fixed on her back; however, she brushed off the sensation from the cold breeze. She has an inkling that her friend will choose further studies; Svetlana knows him too well that he will not pass up such an opportunity to satiate his intellectual curiosity. 

However, she wonders if he'll choose it out of fear. Mitya is too absorbed in thinking about the possible what-ifs and what-not that everything beyond the four walls of the university becomes daunting. 

"Are you considering the latter? Salaries from teaching are quite meagre, you have to supplement it through other jobs." Svetlana picked up her cup once again and regarded her friend through its rim, and he gave her a sheepish look. 

"You know me too well. I know, but I think teaching suits me the best for the moment. Enough about me, how about you? Are you excited to go to university?" 

_She stiffened slightly as she noticed the KGB agent stood up from his seat, cast a longing look at her companion and left._

"I am afraid of leaving my mother behind, Mitya. My father will arrive from his overseas post a month after I start university, she'll be alone." she sighs as she fiddles with her teaspoon, banging it slightly into the teacup. 

_To be a soldier's wife is a lonesome existence._

As a career military man, her father is often away and to provide stability for her children, her mother chose to make a home in Kupchino, enduring the extended periods of separation. She persevered to raise them through her meagre salary as a typist, never wavering from the onslaught of loneliness and worry. Her mother has to live through uncertainties that her husband might not come back to her safely. Svetlana knew that her mother wanted to project herself as a pillar of strength, but pillars do get weathered by time, cracking as it faces the elements. 

Weariness is an acid that chips away that mask of strength, at the dead of the night, a heart-rending sob is carried by the wind. The strained smiles are an indication but hearing her mother's quiet crying herself is haunting, as she lies in her bed helplessly. Svetlana vows to herself that she'll never succumb to the same fate; she'll never become a soldier's wife for such an existence is mired with misery and suffering. Such experience made her reluctant to seek and form a relationship, but then she acknowledges that not every man would want to become a soldier, she's grappling through this irrationality. 

_Life is disappointing, isn't it?_

As the youngest child, she is the one left behind to tend to her mother as her father embarks into another deployment. As time flows, she understands that everyone is caught up in their own little worlds. Her sisters are devoutly showering their children with the same love, devotion and affection showered upon them by their mother. Her brothers, who strayed from the military path would be too busy juggling two to three jobs to provide for their families. 

It's a cruel cycle of forgetting and leaving those that sacrificed their lives to bring them to this world, terribly ingrained and has been accepted as a norm. Her mother insisted that she not waste her time, that such a young, bright lady should not wallow in such wretchedness. She never sees those five years as lost opportunities, she thinks to herself that she abated her mother's loneliness somehow. Svetlana continues to drown in her thoughts, she tries to swim up but waves continuously crash over her, in her desperation, she reaches out. 

A gentle hand grabbed hers, and a warm thumb grazed her skin soothingly, pulling her out of the cold ocean of her miserable thoughts. When she came back to reality, her heart leapt over the moon as Svetlana saw her friend in a new light. Mitya's comforting and understanding smile dispelled the despair creeping up on her heart. The rustling of the leaves consoles her soul; the sapphire blue eyes shine in assurance, but its owner never dared to offer her words of consolation. He understood that not everything warrants words. 

_The turbulent ocean inside of her stilled._

Preview ends here!  
See you at the other half!   
:D


End file.
